Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 10, 1896, Page 2

ys =—— T H HS ___ III) ONLY DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XX—(Continued.) While the village was yet buried in profound slumber, May crept up stairs and donned her hat and cloak She dared not remain long in that lit- tle chamber, for fear the sight of old, familiar objects might make her wav- er in the execution of her plans. Er- nest Hartrey’s letter she placed in the bosom of her dress; and then, with one hurried glance round—one hasty, muttered word of farewell—she left the room, and the cottage, on her way to Winchester. Yet, before she quitted Annadale, she had a visit to psy, and that was to the churchyard. She pushed open the little swing gate and entered the consecrated ground— “Into whose furrcws we shall all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again— At vhe great harvest, when the archangel’s blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.” and approached with reverent step, the newly-filled, unturfed grave where only a few hours before she had seen all that was left on earth of her dearly loved mother deposited. Casting herself upon the ground, she poured forth her whole heart in earn- r. r that she might be upheld in ecution of her design, prayer that she might be able to relieve her father from his sufferings, prayer that her strength might not fail until she had accomplished her purpose. Refreshed and strengthened, she rose from the ground, and, before any of the villagers were stirring, walked rap- idly by the familiar cottage doors, and, leaving Annadale behind her, sped on her way to effect her father’s deliver- ance. There are some who will read these words, perhaps, who will argue that she was doing more than was required cing herself for her father; > it was a matter of con- science with her. She knew she could open the prison gates, and she felt it her duty to do so; and, strong in her purpose, she toiled onward along the road, feeling neither hunger nor fatigue in the excitement produced by the idea which held sole possession of her mind. CHAPTER XXL What Befell Ernest Hartrey in the Cavern, Partly dozing, partly unconscious, and fainting from the effects of weak- ness, Ernest Hartrey lay for many hours after he had see his majesty’s ship Osprey speeding on her home’ yoyage, without motion, almost with- out thought. It seemed to him as if, in a confused, indistinct dream, many people were swarming about him, and then he opened his eyes and became conscious that it was not a dream, but reality. That round him were a multitude of negroes, with their ugly black faces turned toward him, and that one—the lad who had rescued him upon the night of the attack on the plante: "s his head with house—was_ bathing some refr ing lotion. “Where am I?’ asked the young squire, for his brain was still weak from the effects of the fever, and he s unable to recall the events with a! You no speak, or you “How came all these slaves here?” he said, disregarding the caution. “They no slaves, massa—they very good black fellar.” It would be tedious to give, at length, the various conversations which took place between Ernest Hartrey and his little negro friend, as the substance may be given in a few words. After sacking and burning their ill- fated master’s house the self-liberated slaves, as already narrated, set out for a certain spot where they hoped to find security. The place selected for their conceal- ment was the cavern in which Ernest found himself so unaccountably; and it was there that the negroes remained hidden for several days, fearful every hhour that the soldiers would discover them and either shoot them down on the spot or convey them to the town to be flogged or hanged, as might be most convenient. However, several days passed by, and no soldiers appeared, and provis- fons were running short; accordingly, it was resolved tht a raid must be made upon the nearest dwellings and a contribution of food levied on the inhabitants. This plan was carried into execution upon the day on which Ernest return- ed to consciousness ;and it was during their absence upon this expedition that the young squire had opened his eyes to the reality of his position. Emboldened by the success of their foray, the negroes made merry with the food and spirits they had stolen; but a time of reckoning was at hand. They had been tracked to their hid- ing place, and, even while they drank and rejoiced, the military were upon them. In the far-off end of the cavern the light from the brushwood fire gleamed on the bayonets and accoutrements of a body of soldiers (for there was an easier entrance than tke one Ernest had seen down the face of the cliff}; and the songs of the negroes were changed to cries of de- spair at the sight. No mercy was shown to them; they begged in vain for quarter; with fixed bayonets the soldiers charged the frightened cowardly blacks, who were too terrified to offer any resistance, and they were either thrust through where they stood or forced out at the mouth of the cavern into the sea. Some few escaped, but the majority met with death at the hands of the avengers. It was a sanguinary retaliation; but in the old. e-trading days the ne- groes were hardly looked upon as fel- low creatures, and in this instance it was right that their crimes should not go unpunished. In the rush, both the brushwood fire and the solitary lamp had been extin- guished; consequently the cavern, with the exception of a glimmer of daylight at the end next the sea, was in dark- ness. The faithful little fellow who had rendered Ernest such good service, dragged him close to the rocky wall of the cavern, and there the two cowered until the rush was past. As the soldiers came back the young squire called out, in a feeble tone, for nelp. “Hullo! there's a nigger alive!” said one who heard him, as he brought his bayonet ready to give a final thrust. Ernest saw the glimmer of the faint light upon the steel. “Tor heaven’s sake, desist!” he cried. “Iam an Englishman!” At that moment the officer in charge of the avengers came up, and to him Ernest told his story, not forgetting to ensure protection for the negro lad who had saved his life. It was a marvellous, nay, an almost incredible story he had to relate; but his manner and mode of speech con- vinced the officer that he spoke the truth. But he was still too weak to walk; and the question arose as to how he was to be removed from the cavern. A rude litter was hastily constructed, and, by means of ropes, Ernest was raised to the level of the earth, closely followed by the faithful negro lad, who appeared to have conceived a real affection for him. After two days Ernest found himself in a small but cool and comfortably- furnished room, the windows of which looked across the broad expanse of water known as Carlisle Bay. His first inquiries were for England- bound ships, but respecting them he could receive no satisfactory intelli- gerce. There was no fixed time for their sailing, and there appeared to be a great deal of doubt as to how long he might have to wait for a passage home. As he lay in his chamber he anathe- matized his misfo-tunes. From the hour in which he left his Aunt Agatha’s house, after receiving from her the jewels, nothing but mis- haps had occurred. It seemed as if fate had, indeed, de- termined to put obstacles in the way of his union with May Rivers. But his affection for her never wavered— she was ever-present in his mind, and her image was graven too deeply on his beart to be easily effaced. It was well for him, perhaps, that she did not know how much she who mhe loved so well was iu need of him. Had he known the troubles and dan- gers which beset her on every side— could he have but guessed her misery and agony of spirt—he would have chated until the fever might have re- turned, and he, perhaps, would have found a grave in a foreign land, with no friend to soothe him in his last mo- ments—no loving hand to close his eyes—no gentle mourter to follow him to his last home. The negro lad to whom he owed so much was his only friend—and him he determined to take with him to Eng- land. He purchased him from his own- er, rechristened him Caleb, and fitted lim out as his »wn servant; in return for all of which, the poor black lad was at a loss how best to show his gratitude. He followed his new master about like a dog, and was never so happy as when fulfilling his commands. For many weeks after Ernest Hart- rey had recovered his health and strength, he had to wait before he could obtain a passage in a homeward- bound ship; but, after a long, weary time of expectation and hope deferred, the good ship Silver Crescent, bound for Plymouth, put into Carlisle Bay for repairs, and in her the young squire | and the black servant—slave no longer ae berths for passage to Eng- land. No words can describe the joy with which Ernest Hartrey turned his hack upon the land that was hateful to him, nor how gleefully he hailed the idea of returning to his darling May; and when the anchor was raised, the sails set, and the Silver Crescent left the harbor with a fair wind, his spirits rose so that Caleb wondered what could have caused the great change in his master’s manner. He laughed, and joked and sang with the merriest on board—for he was now | fairly on his way to her he loved, and | in whom al Ihis hopes were centered. His trials and troubles were at an end. or nearly so; and in a few weeks he would be in England to find May— What would he find her? The wife of John Gridley? Or would he have to search for her in the graveyard—to look upon the newly-erected tombstone, and read how, at the age of twenty years, May Rivers had been cut down by the An- gel of Death? Such thoughts as these, however, luckily never entered his head. He only thought of her charming, pretty, merry and blooming, as he had | seen her that day upon which he told her of his devotion to her, and learned from her trembling lips that she re- turned his love with all the power of her affectionate little heart. On sped the Silver Crescent, dashing the spray from beneath her bows; and for every fresh bound over the waves of the Atlantic Ernest Hartrey’s heart gave a corresponding leap, for it took him so much the nearer to her whom he loved better than all the world be- side. CHAPTER XXII. What Took Place in Winchester Jail, “Oppressed with grief, oppressed with care, A burden more than I can bear, I sit me down and sigh. Oh, life- thou art a galling load, Along a rough, a weary road To sufferers such as I.” For many a long and weary mile poor May plodded on her way to Vyin- chester. The excitement which sustained her at starting decreased as the pangs of hunger attacked her, and a sense of weariness came over her, and it was as much as she could do, slowly and painfully, to drag one foot after the other; till, at last, worn out, for want of food and sleep, and exhausted by fatigue, she sank down by the road- side. “Oh, if I might only die!” she mur- mured. She had started at such an early hour from Annadale that the sun had obtained no great height fh the heay- ens when she was obliged to succumb to the deadly faintness which came over her. For a long time she remained in a state of semi-insensibility. She feit as if her spirit were winging its course away from her body, and she smiled and rejoiced, for she knew it would be the happier for her. After several hours’ rest, though ex- hausted for want of food, she man- aged to crawl on a few miles further, and then, emboldened by the good- tempered, rosy face of a farm labor- er’s wife standing at her cottage door, she begged for some bread and water. Food was brought her, but so ex- hausted was she for want of it, that she could not eat; and after repeated efforts she flung herself upon the neck of the astonished country woman and burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing. It was a relief to her feelings and did her good. It opened the dam, in- side which her tumultuous thoughts had been pent up ;and after a length- ened rest in the cottage she rose re- freshed and strengthened to continue her journey. “If my strength will but last me,” she repeated again and again to her- self as she toiled along the road, “I will not pause until I reach Winches- ter. I will not give myself time or op- portunity to waver or go back. I have set myself a task, which, painful though it be, by heaven's help, I will perform.” ° On, and still on she went, convinced that she was doing right and happy in the consciousness of being able to alleviate her father’s sufferings. But her strength was insufficient for the task she had set for herself, and again and again she was forced to stay and rest by the road side. She was weary, faint and footsore, and the shades of night fell, and yet she was many, many long miles from Winchester. Worn out alike in mind and body, she lay down beneath the shelter of a hedge and passed the night in the open air, with the stars shining brightly overhead and the firmament for her canopy. Early in the morning, cold and unre- freshed, she rose to pursue her way, but it was not till the afternon that the sight of the cathedral of the old town gladdened her eyes. A few years ago what pleasure it would have given her to visit that fine old town! How happy she would have been then to enter the noble cathedral, to gaze down its noble aisles, and look with interest on its many monuments; but now— Now she had neither eyes nor ears for the wonders or beauties of the quaint old English town—her mind was filled with one thought alone—the thought of her father’s deliverance, and her consequent misery. Many eyes rested in admiration on the pale, regular features of that love- ly girl, as wearily she moved her feet along the roughly-paved streets. The way to the prison—the way to the prison! Fy It was her on tion; and still she dra d her v ‘y limbs along, until she reached the gloomy portal. She d resolved first to see her fa- ther before she sought John Gridley; not with the intention of acquainting him with her purpose, but simply be- cause her heart yearned for him—be- cause she longed to rest her weary head upon his shoulder, and, if possi- ble, comfort him in his affliction. “My father, Matthew Rivers, is here; I must see him,” she said, to the con- sequential-looking warder who stood at the prison gate. Without altering his) position, he looked at her deliberately from head to foot, dwelling with an admiring ex- pression upon her face, and then deigned to answer: “Then you can’t.” $ “IT must,” rejoined May, decidedly. “You cannot keep me from him—I am his daughter.’ “It’s impossible.” “Oh, pray let me see him- she cried, supplicatingly. “I have walked many, many miles for it! Oh, you cannot be so hard-hearted as to refuse me ad- mission!” “I have got my orders, and I mean to stick to ’em.” Just at this moment a tall, gentle- manly-looking man, attired in a suit of spotless black, emerged from an inner door, and the warder, respectfully touching his hat, spoke a few words to him. He nedded his head in reply, and then advanced to poor, weak, trem- bling May “What is it, my poor girl?’ he asked, kindly. “Can I do anything for you?” ‘Oh, sir, my father is there, and they will not let me see him!” “And his name?” “Matthew Rivers, sir.” ‘I am sorry to say, my poor girl, you cannot see him. He is too ill.” “Jl? My father ill, and I not there | to nurse him? Oh, let me go to him? It is cruel, cruel, thus to separate us!” “Listen to me,” said the gentleman, gravely. “I am the doctor, and I have just seen your father. He is very, very ill.” “Will he not recover? hide the truth from me! him!” “It would do neither him nor you any good; but there is something you, perhaps, can do, which may restore him.” “Oh, speak, sir—tell me what it is—I will do anything for him!” “He is a prisoner for debt, I be- lieve?” “Yes, sir.” “You must see his creditors, and tell them his life may be forfeited if they persist in keeping him in prison.” “I will do it,” said May, struggling to conceal her emotions. “Who are his creditors—do you know?” 7 “There is but one, sir—John Grid- ley.” “Ah! Mister Gridley! I know him. | An honest, well conducted young man Oh, do not Let me see —teligious. too, I believe. You will not find him very obdurate, I fancy.” May only sighed. She knew John Gridley better than the doctor did. “And if he be liberated, sir, will he recover?” “With care and attention, doubtless. His constitution is strong; it is his brain which is affected, not his body.” The words conyeyed a terrible sig- nifleance to poor May. “Is he—is he,” she asked—“is he out of his mind?” ‘Well, my poor girl, it is no use con- cealing it from you—he has brain fe- ver.” It was a dreadful blow this, to the maltster’s daughter, and she clasped her hands over her heart, and the breath came quickly, and her temples throbbed violently; but the knowledge of the duty she had to perform, of the task that it was necessary for her to accomplish, assisted her, after a few moments, to regain her outward com- posure. “I wish you every success, my poor girl,” said the doctor, kindly. “Take eare what you do, or you, too, will soon be in my hands.” She heeded not the caution, What did it matter whether she lived or died after she had procured her father’s liberation? Why should she wish to live? What vas there for her to live for? As the wife of John Gridley, could she be happy? No. Her heart was an- other’s, and do what she could, she could not efface the image of Ernest Hartrey. A well built, almost handsome-look- ing house was pointed out to her as the residence of him who had once been her father’s clerk, and who was now its master. “Lor’ bless you, miss!” said a loqua- cious man of whom she inquired. “Ev- erybody in, Winchester knows Mr. Gridley. He ain’t been here over long, | put he’s done a deal of good; he’s got a | grand business and a lot of money; | and they do say he’s going to build a church. He’s a good man and a kind | friend to the poor.” Let us follow May into the house in- habited by John Gridley, and chronicle the reception and the conversation of the “good man—the kind friend to the poor.” After a little delay the maltster’s daughter was ushered into a small but comfortably-furnished apartment; and there, at a table, writing, sat the man whom she had seen last in wedding garb, prepared to lead her to the altar. He looked up as she entered, and a grim smile of satisfaction, which showed all his white and even teeth, passed over his countenance. “I have been expecting you,” he said, and then quietly resumed his writing. May’s courage had deserted her, and she stood trembling in his presence. His letter finished, he folded it up, and then advanced towards the pale, affrighted girl, who shrank back from him in terror. He caught her, almost roughly, by the wrist, and fixed his piercing black eyes upon her face. “It is my turn, now, is it not?” he said, with a low, mocking laugh. “The last time we were in the same room together you shrank away from me —you looked with loathing upon me—you considered me a criminal; put now you come, pale, humble, and penitent. I have brought you on your | knees at last, proud though you be. What do you want?” | “Spare my father! He never wrong- ed you,” she pleaded. “Never wronged me! Only accused me of theft and something worse! Only caused the finger of scorn and hate to | be pointed at me! Only procured me ‘a ducking in the pond of your hated village! Your notions of right and wrong do not tally with mine.” Oh, how May shrank from this man | —his face, his voice, his words! Could she ever bring herself to be- come his wife? el “Oh! do set my father free! He is dying! I have just seen the doctor, and he told me so—told me there is but little chance for him unless he can leave that dreadful prison. You can liberate him—you can save his life. They tell me you are good and kind; surely you will not let him pine and die when it is in your power to save him!” “And if I do?” | “Oh, say you will and I will—” “Will become Mrs. Gridley, eh?” “If my father’s freedom is only to be procured by marrying you I will be- come your wife.” “J<ind, condescending and flattering!” sneered John Gridley. “You know I do not, cannot love you.” : Yes, I know it,” growled the “good” young man between his clenched teeth; “but I will marry you if only to spite that pale-faced baronet’s son, with his blue eyes and his grand manner. What right had he to step in between my happiness and steal you aw: his smooth, honeyed words and his fine promises? Oh, it would be a grand thing to be my Lady Hartrey one day, wouldn't it? But you never shall be— never!” “You may say what you like, do what you like, John Gridley, for my father’s sake I will bear it all. Liberate him and I will be your wife—your loving wife I cannot be; but I will strive to do my duty.” | “Listen to me. Suppose I say you shall be my wife, but without a wed- ding ring?” She started back from him with such an expression of scorn and anger on | her face, as even to discompose the cool and collected John Gridley. “Don’t be frightened!” he sneered, “ye'll call in the clergy; but I have something to say to you, May Rivers, about this marriage. Do you kyow why I want to make you my wife?” “No,” she answered faintly. “For several reasons, my darling,” he laughed. “Not because I love you— don’t think that; but, first, because Ernest Hartrey may not have you; secondly, because I swore an oath that yeu should be mine; and, thirdly, be- cause it will give me pleasure to see | your proud spirit humbled—to see you my servant—my slave. Won't it be a | charming union!’ he sneered. “No loves and doves, or blisses and kisses, but a stern, practical marriage, with- out affection on either side. A charm- ing picture, isn’t it?’ There was something so strange, al- ' most ferocious in his manner that May inveluntarily shrank away from him, but again he caught her by the arm ard held ber fast. ‘Not ” he said. “I have some | thing more to say to vou. A year ago | anguish, the night before I loved you, May Rivers—really and truly loved you; but you slighted me— you preferred a dandy lover without brains. Had we been married twelve months since we might have been hap- py. I should have been saved the com- mittal of much sin—you would have been ‘saved much misery; but you scorned me—remember that—you scorn- ed me; and you see what has it has come to now! You seek me out—you humble yourself at my feet. I like to break your proud spirit—I glory in the sight of your thin, pale, imploring face!” “Mercy, merey!” gasped May faintly. John Gridley laughed one of those disagreeable laughs of his. “One must not frighten one’s bird too much directly it is caged!” he mut- tered loud enough, however, for May to hear. “Come, then, my loving wife that is to he; I wili take you to the house of a lady friend of mine, where you can stay till the bridal day. How will you be dressed? A suit of the deepest mounrning, eh? Black crape?” She made no answer, for her heart was too full to spea! She had borne patiently with all his insults for her father’s sake, but the struggle within her had been very great. Had not her bedily frame been so much weakened by fatigue she could hardly have submitted tamely to his sneering speeches; but so enfeebled was she by all she had gone through —so completely were her thought en- grossed by the hope of procuring her father’s freedom—that many of the most cruel words John Gridley spoke fell upon her ears only as empty | sounds. Following the man whom she was soon to call husband through two or three streets, she arrived at a gloomy, | old-fashioned mansion. A confused dream of being presented to a tall, harsh-looking, but yet hand- some woman—i aint recollection of the humming of voices in conversation, like the droning of bees in summer, | and a sudden feeling of nausea and giddiness, was all that May could re- member of what took place after her entrance into the old house, until she found herself lying on a little bed in a | small but well furnished room, with closely-drawn curtains round about her, and a bouquet of flowers on a ta- ble by her side. CHAPTER XXIIT. The Sacrifice May Rivers Made to Save Her Father's Life. It was wonderful how she managed to keep her strength through all her trials and troubles. She was pale and wan, almost ghastly-looking, as she flitted about from place to place: but still she did net complain. Not 2 word eseaped her lips which could have revealed to those about her that the knowledge of the coming wedding was killing her by slow de- grees. She hardly knew it hersel ae only knew that a dull, weary listlessness hung about her—that she felt nothing, eared for nothing, and only longed for the tume when she migiit l»y down her head and die in peace. “Oh, Erpest—Ernest she cried, in her marriage; “oh, why do you not come to mie, and save me? It is cruel to leave me thus! Come, dearest—come to me!” But it was but rarely she allowed | her feelings thus to gain the eendancy over her sense of duty; but there were hours when, in loneliness and despair, she could not help letting he thoughts wander to the far-different future she had anticipated for herself twelve monihs since. Then, all was bright and fair sanguine hope bridged ever the gulfs which, socially speaking, intervened between her lover and herself, and she locked forward with more joy than she had ever felt before to one day being the wife of Drnest Hartre: And now how different was it! her bright dreams had faded! She was doomed to wed the man whom she detested—the man who had attempted to depzive her ue lover of his lifte—and this in order that she might save her father from the dread- ful fate which the doctors had hinted might be the probable termination of his sufferings, should he much longer remain an inmate of Winchester Gaol. She would not allow herself even to rk of the hated marriage; but strove ve dreamlike in the past, without siousness of the present, and with a horror-shrinking from the future. When they told her that the morro‘v was to be her wedding day, she started back incredulous for the moment, but then, with a weary sigh, resigned her- self to her fate. How Yes, after all that had passed—after | the disclosures which had taken place upon the morning when she had before donned her bridal dress to stand at the altar with him whe had once been but her father’s clerk; in spite of the erimes of which the bridegroom had then been accused, she was about to give her hand to him in marriage. And why? To save ber father from death, or the sull more dreadful alternative— a life of insanity. Who will dare judge our poor heroine harshly? Who can say that she exceeded her duty in determining thus to sacrifice herself? She only acted up to what she be- lieved to be the right, and in doing so she did well. : ‘The morning of the day which was to make May Rivers Mrs. John Gridley opened dull, heavy, port2utous, and lowerins. Stormy clouds chased each other wildly across the murky sky, and, be- fore ten o’clock sounded, the rain be- gan to fall in large, heavy drops. The old cathedral of Winchester looked black and gloomy, oveshad- owed by the Leavy thundexcloud; and those few whom business had taken from their homes now rushed rapidly to the nearest shelter. And this was the day of May’s wed- ding! Poor girl! what sombre bridal-dress which John Gridley kad provided for her, she thought of the many little happinesses and pleasures of a wedding, every one of which would be absent from hers. Her husband—she shuddered when- ever she thougut of iim by that name —had arranged that the marriage should be quite quiet; and May was only too glad to hear that such was his determination. | As she donned the some- he did not pause to make a in quiry into his motive, though, iad she done so— Had she done so, she would not have got a true reply; but had she only known his true motive, how much of her future misery would have been prevented—how different would have been the next few months of her life! In spite of the rain—heedless of the coming storm, May decked herself int bedside. Her mother only dead a week—her father dying in prison—and her heart irrevocably given to another, she was about to become the wife of John Grid- ley. The wife of a man whom she hated, and whom she had good cause to hate. The sacrifice was terrible; but she resolutely refused to allow her mind to dwell on the subject, though ever and again they would recur to the dreadful future which awaited her. The rain was so heavy as to delay the departure from the little church where the wedding was to take place for some time; but at length it abated sufficiently to allow them to enter the coach and proceed along the flooded streets. ‘A dismal, little, old-fashioned, dark, pushed-away-into-a-corner sort of church it was, reminding one of a vault on entering it. It was a church with a damp, un- wholesome smell; and the red hang- ings of the pulpit looked like a huge, poisonous fungus rising on a brown ; Stem in the center aisle. The monuments on the walls were chipped and broken, and the cherubs, lamenting the decease of the late Will- | iam Rogers, “of the parish,” were weeping green, mildewy tears. The pavement was uneven—the pews were wormeaten—the font was cracl{ed —the clergyman was asthamatic—and the clerk had a wooden leg, with which he stumped about the yault-like church, awakening dismal echoes in the roof as he did so. Oh, it was a dreary, desolate, dismal dungeon to bring a young girl to who was about to enter upon her new car- eer of life! May shivered as she walked down the worn steps which led into it. - It seemed to her as if she were enter- ing a grave. And so it was to be, if John Gridley had his wicked will. It was her living tomb; for there she was to bury and leave behind her all her young heart’s affections, and all her hopes for a happy future. Silently, side by side with the man who had brought about her father’s | ruin and who had sought to deprive of life one whom she loved with the fer- yor of a young girl’s first and only love, she stood in front of the com- munion rail; and the clergyman opened the book. As the service proceeded, the words rising and losing themselves in the vaulted roof, May’s tears fell fast. In yain she strove to restrain her emotion, for the solemn words which | were to unite her to John Gridley till | death roused in her mind all the feel- ings she wished most to keep under. The stern reality of the sacrifice ap- peared before her in all its hideous- ness; and now, when it was too late, she would have drawn back, even at the expense of her father’s liberty. But it was too late. The irrevocable “J will!” was spoken, though in so low and choked a voice as to be almost in- audible—the ring was placed upon a | finger iey-cold as that of a corpse, and May Rivers was the wife of John Gridley! and all hopes that she had ever had of becoming the wife of Ernest Hart- rey were at an end. The maltster’s clerk had played his eards cautio and well; and she whom he had orn to bring a suppli- ant on her knees had, indeed, humbled herself before him. The thunder growled, and the rain came pattering heavily on the roof— the parson coughed and mumbled a 5 ¢ benediction—the clerk pulled his forelock and hobbled to the door, wishing the young couple every happi- ne SS. Happiness! Oh, how jarred on May’s feelings! “In wishing me _ happiness,” | thought, “he wishes me a coffin!” Slowly the coach rolled over the ill- paved streets, until it stopped before the house where, a few days before, she had come to sacritice herself for her father’s sake. “Come, May,” said John Gridley, lay- | ing his hand upon her arm, “we are at home.” She was deep in her gloomy reverie; but the word “home” reused her. But ; when she looked out upon the wet streets, and saw, instead of the pretty little Annadale cottage, the ugly, form- | al house in which the rest of her days were to be passed, she could not retain | her composure. She alighted from the coach and en- tered the gloomy hall and followed her husband into his study. “Give me the order for my father’s release,” she said. He took no notice of her words; but, taking her hand, cold and passive in his, he said: ‘Come, May! It is too late for repentance! I have realized all my dreams! I am well-to-do, and I have made you my wife. You must try and love me!” : “Give me the order for my father’s release,” was the only answer she made him. . “Not now,” said he. “Yes—this very instant! John Grid- ley, you may think me poor, weak and impotent to hurt you; but beware how you trifle with me in this instance! If you have deceived me—” ‘ “T have not.” “Then give me the order this in- | stant.” “Nothing can be done in this storm; who can take it te the prison?” “T will.” “You.Nonsense! The idea is absur Leave it until to-morrow ,and I wa see that it is arranged, that yor: fa rise is liberated—nay, more, well'cared or.” “I do not trust you, John Gridley. Give me the order of release, and 1 will go, though the rain descend with ; Seven times the force it now does. Do not trifle with me. No hands but mine shall bear my father’s liberty to him.” “This romance is foolish, May. List- en to reason.” “T will listen to nothing. Write me the order this minute!” the word she ‘To be Continued.) Yes; the sacrifice was, indeed, made; ‘ the garments which she found by her “, = ad