Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, September 19, 1896, Page 2

=—==T H FS (}ALUULITV IITA E ONLY DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XIII—(Continued.) The Osprey’s helm was put down, and her head turned toward the strange sail. Presently Ernest's good friend, the Heutenant, hurried up to him. “The captain is going to send a dis- patch to England,” he whispered to Ernest. “I shall have command of the best which takes it off; so if you ean scribble a few lines to your friends, I will take care the letters shall reach their destination.” “Thank you—thank you a thousand times! “Be quick—you have no time to lose. Go into my cabin. You will find pen and ink there.” Ernest needed no second bidding, but hurried off to write the news to Eng- land of his safety. When the cutter left the Osprey, bearing the captain’s dispatch, two let- ters in Ernest’s handwriting went also. One directed to May Rivers—and the was the longest—zend the other to Sir Harold Hartrey, Bart, of Hartrey Park. CHAPTER XIV, What the #®ells Kang for at Anna- dale. “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” said the wise man, and poor May found the truth of the proverb. The words of Agatha Henwood had roused her once more to hope, and day by day she watched and waited for tidings from her betrothed husband. Day by day she grew paler and thin er; her appetite deserted her, and she flitted about the house the shadow of her former self. The greater part of the time she spent in her own room, refusing all companionship, and shrinking away from expressed sympathy. To whom could she ? There was one subject alone on which she could conve for it occupied all her thought: upon that subject she was tongue-tied. True, she need no longer feel herself bound by the promise made to Ernest Hartrey, for he had deserted her—at feast, so she believed; but that, to her, seemed the greater reason for keeping silent on the subject. Could she bear to reveal that she had loved, and had been forsaken? Could she confess that even now, when she should have felt herself aggrieved, that she had loved the man who had left her, more than all the world beside? No, no! She determined the secret should be kept; and that if she lived she would marry John Gridley, and strive hard to make him a good wife. As she made the deternSnation, she felt it to be a mockery, but she clung to it pertinaciously. Wearied out with watching, waiting, and hoping, sick at heart, miserable, and ill at ease, poor May grew weaker and weaker, till one morning she was unable to rise from her bed. As long as she had strength she com- batted the notion of sending for a doctor; but she became so much worse that Matthew Rivers, without consult- ing her, mounted his cob, and rode off to Alverton, and reurned with Dr. Price. “AS low fever my dear sir; nothing more; a low fever. I will send her some medicine. Let her be kept quiet, and have nothing to disturb her in any away.” Nothing to disturb her? Even her father could no longer shut his eyes to the dread with which she regarded her coming marriage with John Gridley. He would have given all he was -worth, now, to recall the engagement with his partner—for his former clerk now possessed his share in the busi- ; but such a proceeding was im- possible. He had hinted that the engagement should be broken off; but John Gridley treated the proposal with scorn, and Matthew Rivers was too completely in his power to dare to resist him. The thousand pounds had been paid to the maltster’s clamorous creditor, and vuin was for the present averted. But Gridley held a slip of paper, which was the acknowledgment of a debt of twelve hundred pounds sterling, and was signed, in a trembling hand, Matthew Rivers.” It was by means of thi rap of pa- per that the maltsier’s junior partner was enabled to compel compliance to bis will; and at the very mention of it the old man’s cheeck would blanch, and his limbs quiver—for he knew that he could not repay the money, and that he might at any time be cast into prison by the young man. The young man had worn a mask as long as it served his turn to do so; and outwardly humble, he had pleased is employer, but now it was different. e was master, and could dictate what terms he liked. Of che power thus acquired he was not slow to avail himself; and Matthew Rivers became all but a nonentity in the business, which, until the unfortunate day when the other had first come to Annadale, had been so profitable. Matters with those at the little country village who are concerned in eur story went on far from satisfac- torily. Matthew Rivers and John Gridley, though outwardly civil—nay, even cor- dial to each other—were enemies at heart. Mrs. Rivers and her husband had differed; she insisting that the mar- riage with John Gridley should not take place, thereby exciting the anger ef that gentleman, and her husband protesting vehemently that it should, though he did not care to confess to his wife the potent reasons which ren- dered his consent to the union almost compulsory. i In this house, with the members di- vided between themselves, poor May Jay hovering between life and death. $o tranquilly she lay, so gently she breathed, that more than once they thought her ‘spirit had flown; but youth, and a_ good constitution, at length asserted themselves, and May ‘was pronounced, after an illness of some weeks to be out of danger. It was almost winter before May gathered sufficient strength to leave her room, but the first day on which she ventured to descend to the parlor she was met by John Gridley. He started back as he saw her, for the meeting was unexpected; and he hardly knew, for the moment, whether he saw May Rivers or her spirit . She was draped in a close white wrapper; and from her face, which, from the effects of her illness, was pale and thin, her eyes shone large beauti- ful, and lustrous. Never, thought John Gridley, had he seen her look so beautiful; and he was right; for her illness had sotened her face and taken from it in roundness while it added to it in delicacy. Eagerly he bent over her till his lips almost touched her hair, whispering in her ear low, soft hopes and in- quiries. Instinctively she shrunk away from him, but he would not be repulsed. Uad he not the right of an accepted lover to be near her? Would she not, as soon as she had recevered sufficient strength, go with him to that gray stone church, the tower of which he could see from where he stood; and would she not there swear to love, honor, and obey him? However, happily for May’s peace of mind, John Gridley had a business en- gagement at Alverton, and he was compelled very soon to take his leave. As May saw him ride past the win- dow it seemed to her as if a weight were taken from her heart; for much as she strove to like the man—love him she knew she could not—the repug- nance she had always felt for him in- creased day by day, and she dreaded with an increased dread the hour when sbe should become his wife. John Gridley rode gaily along the leavestrewn lane to Alverton. It was not market day, but yet there appeared to be many people congregated in the street; as he entered, however, he was not particularly curious, but rode on to keep his appointment. Business concluded, he rose to de- part; and then he saw that the crowd had considerably increased. “What is the meaning of all these people being on the street?” he asked. “Haven’t you heard the news?” “No; how should 1? I have only just ridden in from Annadale, and came straight here. What is it?” “There has been a dreadful crime committed.” “What is it?” gasped Gridley, turn- ing deadly pale, and clutching at the back of a chair for support. “Who is it?” “A poor, demented fellow, named Amos, who was always rambling about the country; though what value his life could have been to any one, good- ness knows.” ‘ “Water—water, for mercy’s sake!—a drop of water!” The man randed him a_ glass of brandy, and John Gridley tossed it down his throat. “You seem strangely affected by the news?” “No, no—but it is horrible! Tell me more; where did they find the body?” “In a ditch on the Portsmouth road.” “And they recognized it after so many weeks?” muttered the malster’s partner, partly to himself. “So many weeks?’ repeated the other. “I thought you said you had heard nothing of it?” “You said he had been dead many weeks-” said John Gridley, perceiving the mistake he had made, and hoping to retrieve it by a bold falsehood. “Did I?” said the other doubtingly. “Of course the poor fellow was in a dreadful state; but they knew him by his clothes. His skull had been frac- tured by repeated blows from a heavy stick.” “Dreadful!” said John Gridley, shud- dering, as the remembrance of the struggle and the dreadful result were brought vividly back to his memory. “Have they any clue to the perpetra- tor of the deed?” He strove to ask the question calm- ly, but his voice almost betrayed him by its anxious tone. vot the least clue as yet; but there will be an inquest and the whole af- fair will be fully inquired into.” “Quite right. I hope—hope they will succeed in bringing—bringing the guilty one to justice.’ The words almost choked him in the utterance. He felt as if the hang- man’s noose were already about his neck; and as he rode quickly back to Annadale he cast many startled, frightened look behind him, as he had done in the parlor of that little inn where he had rested on the morning after the committal of the crime. It was early when John Gridley got back to the village, but neither Mat- thew Rivers nor his daughter saw any- thing of him that evening. The next day he appeared the same as usual—calm, collected and self-pos- sessed; and none but himself knew the agony of fear in which he had passed the night. The news of the discovery soon reached Annadale, but, by the advice of John Gridley, for an obvious rea- son, it was kept secret from May. She was fond of the lad, he urged, and might be much affected, in her present weak state, by the news of his dreadful death, and therefore it would be better that she should not be acquainted with it. ‘There was reason in his words, but he alone knew hom much the news would have affected her. The inquest was held at Alverton, and a verdict of “wilful murder against a person or persons unknown” was returned. The body was buried, and in a week’s time the event was al- most forgotten. Then John Gridley breathed freely again. While the poor boy’s body had been above ground a dreadful fear would seize him at times. A dread that close behind him the pale face of Amos would be seen im- pelled him to turn his head to look for it; and though he knew it was but an hallucination of his brain, again and again he did the same thing. It was the beginning of December, Anperfest Pane covered his ordinary composure; while May had so far progressed in her grad- ual restoration to health that the roses had returned to her cheeks, and she was able to walk almost as well as before her illness. Gridley, who feared further delay, determined that the time had now come for his marriage. He broached the subject to Matthew Rivers, who raised no objection; in- deed, he was so much in the other's power that however much he may have disapproved, it would have been useless to offer any opposition. “You must speak to May about it yourself,” was all he said; and John Gridley determined he would do so upon the first oppoTtunity. One was not long in presenting it- self. The very day following that upon which he had spoken to the malster he found May sitting alone in the parlor spinning. Seating himself by her side, he at once plunged into the subject which was foremost in his heart. “Dear May,” he said, “it is now more than a month since you promised me you would be my wife.” She inclined her head. “I have been ill,” she said. “Do not think for a moment that I meant to reproach you; I merely would bring the evening when you placed your hand in mine back to_your memory, in order that I may ask you when you will do so at the altar in yonder church.” “Do not ask me now—say no more about it—at least not yet,” murmured May. “May, dearest, I must speak; and what is more, I must have an answer. I have been looking forward to calling you my own as soon as you had recov- ered sufficiently from your illness; and now, it seems to me, the time is ap- proaching for my happiness. Oh, that you would let me say our happiness!” “Must it be soon?’ said May, with the greatest repugnance to the idea expressed in her voice. “Very soon, now.” “And what if I beg you to release me from this engagement and from among the pretty villagers seek some one who has a better face, a quieter conscience and a whole heart to give you.” “You cannot mean this, May? You do not know what you are saying,” His cheek paled; he rose from his seat and walked rapidly up and down the room. “I know well what I say,” answered the maltster’s daughter; “but I fear I know you too well to hope for a mo- ment that you will voluntarily surren- der any object which you have deter- mined to possess, whatever pain and agony it may cost her whom you pro- fess to love.” “You are ight, May; you I will not give up. If you refuse me. ur father will in three Gays be imprisoned in the common gaol for debt; but if you accept me, the paper I hold, bearing his signature, and which is the ac- knowledgment of a debt of twelve hundred pounds to me, shall be placed in your hands to do with as you think fit.” “At least postpone the idea of an im- mediate marriage,” entreated Ma “Postpone it! For how long? A week? = M: before this month is many days older you and I must be man and wife.” He spoke in a soft-toned voice but his manner was determined. May saw no chance of escape. She knew nothing, had heard nothing of Ernest; and he was the sole person in the wide world to whom she could have appealed to rescue her from the dilemma in which she was placed. After a few moments’ silence she heaved a weary sigh. “It must be as you will,” said she; “settle the day with my father and I will be prepared.” It was hardly more than a week from the day of this conversation that the bells rang out from the church tower of Annadale. Their cheery sound awoke May early in the morning and called at once to her mind what she had to go through that day. She had often listened to them with pleasure when they rang for a neigh- por’s wedding—she liked the sound of the merry chimes then; but now every sound seemed to inflict a blow upon her heart; she felt it was her death- knell they were pealing. Sadly she donned the bridal costume which her father had brought her from Alverton, for she had refused to take any part in the preparations, and had not even tried on the white robe she was to wear. Poor May! Her fingers trembled and her cheeks were deadly pale; but she nerved herself for a great strug- gle and firmly determined to go through with what she had begun. Slowly, when arrayed in the spot- less white of a bride, she descended the stairs to the little parlor where her father and mother awaited her; and all the while the bells rang out as merrily as if Ernest Hartrey had been the bridegroom, and the bitter frost- Jaden wind went howling and moaning around the house, as if wailing a cor- onach over one of its inhidbitants. The wedding, at May’s desire, ex- pressed so strongly as to be almost a command, was as quiet as possible. None of the neighbors had been asked to be present at it; but curiosity prompted many of the idle ones to go to the church to see May Rivers give her hand, as they supposed she had already given her heart, to the malt- ster’s handsome young partner. John Gridley was a favorite with the girls of Annadale. They admired his good looks, they liked to hear his soft, pleasant voice, especially when addressing compliments to themselves. They liked John Gridley—but they never saw him without the mask which he wore so skilfully as to de- ceive everybody whom he cared to de- ceive. As May entered the room he who was so soon to be her husband ad- vanced gaily to meet her, with a smile of triumph on his lips; but she waived him away from her. “Not yet!” she murmured; “not yet!” The villagers were mostly standing at their doors (at least such as had not gone to the church) to catch a glimpse of May in her bridal dress, when a young man, mounted on a sorry-look- ing horse, rode slowly up the hill at the entrance of the village, from the Alverton road, and reined in his horse at the village inn. “Is this village called Annadale?” he asked. “Ay, ay; sure enow it is.” “Can you tell me where one May Rivers resides?” jand John Gridley had completely r-| “Can I, sure? Ay, a: | isted in his mind; for he lingered about y; the large cot tage close by the church; but ye must look sharp, for she’s just away to get married.” “Married-’ said the horseman; “that’s strange, after what I heard.” He reached the cottage just as the bridal party were emerging. “Pardon me,” said he, “I will not detain you a minute;”’ he flung the bridle over the gate, and came up the path. “Miss Rivers’”’ said he, addressing May, “I am the bearer of a letter from Ernest Hartrey to you.” “Kirnest—Ernest Hartrey!” cried May; and her countenance brightened up, as the glorious truth dawned upon her “He is coming to save me—to save me!” and, with an hysterical sob, she fell back in her father’s arms. CHAPTER XV. John Gridley’s Disgrace, The arrival of the letter, May’s ex- citement and Matthew Rivers’ amaze- ment brought all the small bridal party to a sudden halt. One person alone could have explained the reason of that exclamation of the malster’s daughter, and that one was John Grid- ley. He turned pale as death, his limbs shook and his lips quivered, for he felt that the cup of happiness was about to be dashed from him even now when he touched the brim. “Come, come!” said he in a hoarse whisper, “your letter will keep.” But May heard him not, for she staggered as one ina dream. Her eyes were distended, and her hand stretch- | ed forward in a supplicating attitude. | Her lips moved but no articulate sounds came from them. “Come, come!” John Gridley spoke | impatiently, and at the same time took the hand of the young girl in his haste to lead her toward the church. She shrunk back from him as if he had been a noxious reptile; and then Matthew Rivers interposed. “I know no more than you do,” said he, “what may be the meaning of this | strange behavior; but you must see that it is necessary for May to rest a while before the wedding takes | place.” Gridley winced at the words, for who was there knew better than he what was likely to be in that letter? When last he had seen Ernest Hart- rey he had been struggling manfully for life in the water; and though he had not had ocular proof of his death, very little doubt that he perished ex- Portsmouth two days after the sudden and terrible attack, but heard nothing of his supposed victim, alive or dead. How should he, when the young squire was on board his majesty’s ship Osprey, bowling rapidly down the channel before a fair wind? No wonder that John Gridley felt | some degree of trepidation when he saw a letter from the man he had be- lieved dead in the hands of his afii- anced wife; for he guessed that that letter would tell a strange, wild story, which would turn all who heard it against him, and which would effectu- ally prevent May from becoming his wife. More than once he was tempted to snatch it from the girl’s hand, and tear it to fragments in presence of the crowd; but then, he thought, that act alone would arouse suspicion, and, per- haps, after all, the letter contained nothing of the nature which he so dreaded. “But suppose it does—suppose it does?’ an imaginary voice kept whis- pering in his ear. Suppose it does? There is no one here to accuse me. I cannot be con- fronted with Ernest Hartrey ,and I can deny everything. I can denounce the letter as a fabrication—its contents as a plot to mar my fortunes—I can and will do this.” Yet, for all this resolution, John Gridley was not at that time the calm, self-possessed, handsome man who, a few minutes before, radiant with joy, had led a bride from the creeper-coy- ered porch, and who now led her back in a fainting state, holding in her hand an epistle from the man she really loved. Mrs. Rivers saw in her daughter’s agitation nothing more than the effects of excitement; but to her husband the fainting fit of the bride and the evi- dent trepidation of the bridegroom, ex- cited strange suspicions in his mind. There was evidently some secret, of which he knew nothing, but which, in 2 mysterious way, had been revealed to John Gridley. May was hardly insensible for more than a few moments; and when her father tried to draw the letter from her hand, she clasped ot the tighter, press- ing it close to her heart. It was so evident that she would suffer no one to read it before herself, that Matthew desisted from attempt- ing to obtain possession of it; and he vaited, together with the rest of the small bridal party, till May was sufli- ciently recovered to give some explana- tion of her conduct. When the poor girl was sufficiently restored she unfastened the envelope of the etter. “‘On board his majesty’s ship Osprey,’ ” she said in amazement. John Gridley felt at a loss how to act. He knew an exposure must come in a few moments; and though he did not believe that anything could be proved against him, still he knew that the circumstantial evidence would be so strong as to prevent any feeling of sympathy for him in the minds of the witnesses to his disgrace. John Gridley was proud and resolute —he did not attempt to shirk the com- ing evil. He stood his ground manfully, pre- pared to combat it inch by inch, and boldly to deny every accusation. To May, the commencement of her lover’s letter was too sacred a thing to make public; but as she proceeded with it, she turned a gaze of terror and amazement at him, who now stood ready to lead her to the altar to be made his wife. ‘The more she read, the more the ex- pression increased on her face; and she shrank farther and farther away from the maltster’s partner. At last—as if unable to continue— she dropped the hand which held the letter, and turned with a_ look of speechless anger and dread to John Gridley. " “You know what this letter con-\ tains?” she asked, in a low voice full of meaning. “Not I!’ answered he whom she ad- dressed, endeavouring, and succeeding tolerably well, to assume an air of easy indifference. “You do!” she said, sternly. “It is useless to deny it.” ° “I am not yet sufficiently honoured with your confidence even to guess the purport of the letter.” “That is not true.” “Nor can I imagine by what right a young scamp, such as Ernest Hartrey —who, I am told, has disgraced his father by absenting himself from home —presumes to address you.” He spoke calmly and unblushingly; and had the proof been less conclusive, May would have almost believed him; but in her hand she held the written words which left her no room for doubt. “I will give you one chance,” said May, in a low tone. “You do know what the contents of this letter are; but on condition that you leave me now and forever—that you never again set foot in Annandale—I will refrain from making them public.” John Gridley hesitated—but only a moment. “I am ignorant of the contents of that letter. I have nothing to dread; and I remain to claim the fulfillment of the promise you have made to become ny wife.” May turned from his shudderingly. “Father,” she said, turning to Mat- thew Rivers, and speaking loudly enough for all to hear her—‘father, I hold in my hand a letter from Ernest Hartrey—my first, my only love—in which the wickedness, the crime of the man who still seeks to wer me, is fully shown. Read the passages refer- ring to him aloud, and let every one present judge him, and witness his dis- grace.” “One moment,” said Gridley, coldly, but with raging anger and alarm in his heart. “I know not what accusa- tions against me that letter may con- tain, but I would observe that of the writer I know nothing more than is known to most here—that he is the good-for-nothing son of Sir Harold Hartrey. I have never seen him, never spoken to him.” “Tis false!” It was Matthew Rivers who spoke, | in a voice of furious anger. He had hurriedly glanced at the pas- sages in the letter pointed out by May, and had seen enough to feel convinced that the man to whom he would have married his only daughter was a crim- inal of the deepest dye. All those of the villagers, who had been admitted to the cottage, gathered closely round Matthew Rivers, who in a firm voice read the dreadful story of Gridley’s dastardly attempt on young Hartrey’s life. John Gridley stood ively avoided by all. “-The man,’ continued the maltster, reading still from the letter— ‘the man who robbed me of the thousand pounds I obtained on my aunt’s jewels for you, and who subsequently strc to hide his crime by a still more dr ful one, gave the name of John Grid- ley, and stated he was your father’s clerk. However, there is little doubt the name and character were fictitious —though, how he could have obtained your letter, which he safely delivered to me, I am at a loss to imagine.’” Of all the people gathered together in the malster’s parlour, the one whom the letter and its accusation would affect most, was the least moved. “Mr. Rivers,” said he, “I can pardon the injustice you do me; for I own that a robbery having been committed, and a more serious crime attempted by a man passing under my name, is an awkward and unpleasant circum- stance.” “If you have anything to say, say it at once.” “I deny any knowledge of the crimes with which I am charged.” “That is easily said. Prove it.” “Not so. It is for you to prove I had any connection with the man who, un- def my name, is said to have appro- priated a thousand pounds; and “I will prove it—prove it by circum- stantial evidence!” Rivers, dashing down his fist heavily on the table; “and you, men of An- apart, instinct- nandale, he added, turning to the wed- | ding party, “shall be the jury to find this man guilty, or acquit him!” “We will—we will!” they cried. “Two days before my daughter’s let- ter was delivered at Hartrey Park, John Gridley left Annandale—he was absent a week.” “What does that prove?” asked Grid- ley. “I have business at Winchester.” “It proves that you had the oppor- tunity of committing the crimes laid to your charge. Had you been in the village at the time, no more could be said.” “Proceed.” “This letter, which I hold in my hand, states that the writer has in his pos- session a receipt for a thousand pounds igned by you.” “Not by me—by some one, who, for reason best known to himself, thought fit to assume my name.” “How, then, do you account for the possession of that thousand pounds? Men of Annandale, when this man re- turned after a week’s absence, he had in his pocket a thousand pounds!” A murmur ran through the assem- blage, and the proof seemed almost complete. Glances of hate, distrust, and indignation were directed at the young man, who, pale, erect, and de- fiant, stood apart, smiling scornfully. For a moment there was silence, and then he spoke. “Tt is now fairly my time to address you, men of Annandale; and though it pains me to reveal circumstances which I had hoped would have remained hid- den from your knowledge, I must do so to clear myself.” Matthew Rivers shifted his feet un- easily, and his daughter turned a half trembling, half inquiring glance to- wards him. : “Matthew Rivers was my good friend and I always had a kindly feeling to- wards him, which was strengthened by the love I entertained for his daugh- ter. I looked upon him almost as a father.” “What has this to do with the mat- ter?” “A great deal—more_ than you think.” “Go on with your story.” “This man, who now, acting upon his information contained in a_ letter, thinks proper to accuse me of theft; and even now, this Matthew Rivers, whom you have always looked upon as a wealthy man, as a respectable man, is tottering on the verge of bankrupt- cy.” The maltster covered his face, and moaned aloud. “Say, Matthew Rivers, do I not speak ‘the truth?” “What you say is true.” Amazed, the neighbours looked one at you cried Matthew | the other, scarcely able to credit =o | ears. “The possession of the thousand pounds, with which he taunts me— from which he infers that I have done that from the very naming of which I shrink—that thousand pounds was obtained by me at great trouble, solely to relieve him from his pecuniary em- barrassments!” “Impossible!” cried more voice. 4 “Impossible, do you say? See h As he spoke, he drew from his poc! etbook the maltster’s written acknowl. edgment of the debt, and handed it round for inspection. It was cruel, cruel thing to do, and May’s father felt the disgrace attached to the exhibition deeply. “This is Matthew Rivers’ gratitude,” continued his former clerk. “At great personal inconvenience, I go to Ports- mouth, and after that to Winchester, to aid him, in return for which he | strives by the very means which bene- fitted himself, to cast a stain upon my | mame.” This speech of John Gridley’s served | to partly blind some of his hearers; but | many there were who saw in it but a | clever attempt to turn aside popular indignation. He continued. “Had I risked so much as Matthew | Rivers would have you believe for the sake of the thousand pounds it is likely that I should have lent the money to him the moment it came into my pos- session—should I not the rather have devoted it to my own purposes?” “No!” cried the malster; “you have revealed only part of the tale—let me tell the sequel.” John Gridley turned even paler than before. He had not given the malster credit for so much courage. He had not believed he would dare to tell all. But Matthew Rivers told everything; told how his clerk had made the condi- tions of a partnership in the business, and a marriage with his daughter, how he had refused to help him on any. | other terms; and how, finally, driven to desperation, he consented to every- thing in order to preserve his good name. At this revelation hands were clench- ed, and looks, almost ferocious, were turned toward John Gridley. “Proof—proof!” he cried sneeringly. \e “Accusations are nothing—bring your proofs. No court of justice would con- demn on such imcomplete evi- dene.” “You are not in a court of justice, | but you shall be judged by your fel- | low men. How do you say neighbors— guilty, or not guilty?’ | “Guilty! guilty!” they cried with one | accord. | “You take upon yourselves the duties of barristers, jury and judge—who is the executioner?” “We are not executioners,” answered a voice from the crowd; “but you must leave Annadale “Who says so? “We all say it!” chorused all the men present. “What if I refuse you?’ “We will compel you!” “I do refuse!” For a moment there was a whisper ing among the men; and then, with a sudden cry, they rushed upon John Gridley. He could not stand to combat with the village. He was powerless. They caught him—some beneath the arms, some round the ankles—and car- | ried him, with shouting and revelings, to the village pond and threw him in. It was not deep, and they had no de- | sire to drown him. They dragged him | through it till he was all but unrecog- nizable. His hair bedraggled, his clothes wet {and mud-stained, few could have | known him for the prim, staid, sober | John Gridley. His face, too, was transformed with passion, and he shook his clenched fist menacingly at the crowd, who, with |hootings and laughter, greeted his strange and altered appearance. | “I will come back!” he eried; “and | when I return it will be an evil day for | Annadale!” Only a shout of laughter greeted his threat; and with the sound of it still ringing in his ears, he turned his back on the village with rage in his heart, yowing vengeance upon all those who had brought about his disgrace. It was a vow which, before many months had passed, was destined to | have its fulfilment; but in a way Te little suspected. In the meantime, unconscious of what was taking place, May Rivers | and her father remained in the cottage. Matthew Rivers knew full well that | in bringing the charge against his part- | ner of robbery and the attack on Hart- | rey he was ma king for himself a bitter me foe, who would not fail, by fair means or foul, to be avenged upon him. Alas! the means for him to wreak a | terrible vengeance were in his hands. He held the bill which the malster had given him for twelve hundred | pounds, and Matthew Rivers was but | too well aware that when it became | due, he would be unable to meet it. In the hands of a revengeful enemy, | such as he had no doubt John Gridley | would prove himself, it was a terrible instrument; and the malster shuddered at the thought of being compelled to leave his home and family to answer with his liberty for the money he could not pay. Even, already, there was a stain upon his fairname. To prove the guilt of John Gridley he had sacrificed him- self; for though he would have wedded his daughter to this man, knowing she did not love him, he never, for an in- stant, thought of screening his part- ner’s crime, even when the publication of it was likely to be attended with such disastrous results to himself. Matthew Rivers was a selfish man, but he had a conscience, and acted in accordance with it; and that con- ecience told him that to attempt to shield John Gridley would be a crime. ‘The old maltster was crushed and, heartbroken. His failure was no" patent to the whole village; the np would speedily spread to Alverton, and there he would be ashamed to show his face. As for May, mingled with her feel- ing of sorrow for ber father, was one of thankfulness that her marriage wit John Gridley was prevented, the wore especially as she held the proof that Ernest Hartvey had not forgotten her, and was still desirous of making ber his wife. (To be Continued.) 1 The rabbis thought that the languse spoken by Adam was Hebrew. oh }