Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 17, 1896, Page 6

but she was | let him see me—do not let him speals = =THE SS WNT FONLY DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XXIII—(Continued.) She stamped her little foot on the round as she spoke, and there was a ight in her eyes that John Gridley had never seen there before. He actually cowered before her. He slank rather than walked to an escri- toire which stood in one corner of the room, and hastily wrote a few words on a slip of paper, which he handed to his wife. May read it carefully through. It was a note acknowledging the pay- ment of twelve hundred pounds trom Matthew Rivers. May put the precious document into the folds cf her dress and hastily quit- ted the room. John Gridley remained after she had taken her departure with his head bur- ied in his hands, reflecting upon his deeds. he worth all I have given for her?” he asked himself. “What avails it that I have forced into marriage one who cares naught for me? Would it not have been the better course to have let her wed the pale-faced aristo- erat, and have wreaked my vengeance on her father—the soft-headed old man who turned me out from Annadale as a villain, but who will now have to rec- ognize me as his son-in-law? Recog- nise—ha, ha! He shall welcome me with open arms. If not—if not—there are other means by which I can punish him!” And John Gridley pondered and med- {tated thus while his newly-made wife ran through the mud and rain to the prison, heedless of both, the bearer of the glad tidings of her father’s fro. dom. CHAPTER XXIV. The Wedding Day. Through the cold, muddy, desolate streets, in the sharp, pitiless rain, May ran on her errand of affection towards the old prison. Battling with the fierce gusts of wind, and mocked at by the distant growling thunder, she held steadfastly on her course, swerving neither to the right nor to the left. Drenched through and through by the storm, she was unconscious of all except a blissful fact that she carried about her person a document which would give her father freedom—per- haps life. No matter at what cost it had been purchased, she had it. She held it fast, and that was enough for her. Her father, del red from durance yile, she must again return to that grim, desolate house which she was henceforth to call her home. vhispered in her ear: When the thought first occurred to her she started as if the Tempter him- self had stood her elbow; but, for all that, at every step she took, the same voice, she fancied, sounded in her ears: “Why go back?” The massive prison doors were reached at last, and as May rushed beneath the shelter the warders flocked around her, lost in admira- tion and amazement. Amazement at her beauty—an ement at her having ventured through the raging storm without other protection than her hat and a little cloak which she had wrapped around her shoulders afford- ed her. “What can I do for you, miss?” asked a burly man, eyeing her with what he fondly imagined to be an en- gaging expression. “Is the doctor here?” “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. Look here, young woman, this isn’t an in- firmary. “No, no! I know too well what it is,” she answered, with a shudder. “If the doctor is here, I beseech you, let me see him. It isa matter of life and death.” “Well, we'll see about it presently. Come in and dry your clothes.” “No, no! I can do nothing until I have seen him! Take me to him!” “Come along, then, and we'll see what we can do.” May thanked the man and kept close behind him ,through long, vaulted stone corridors. Every now and then their progress was barred by massive doors; but her guide unlocked each one, taking care to fasten them again securely when they had passed through. After a while she stopped, at a sign from her conductor. The doctor’s inside here. knock, and he’ll let you in.” In obedience to these words, May rapped gently, und a voice bidding her enter, she pushed the door, which gave way before her, and entered.a small but comfortably-furnished room. ‘The doctor had made his rounds, and had settled himself comfortably to his reading in a costume more easy than elegant. “My. dear young lady!” said he, starting to his feet as soon as he saw the sex of his visitor, “this is an unex- pected pleasure! What can I do for you?” a “How is my father, sir? Oh, do not deceive me—let me know the worst!” “Pardon me; really, I don’t exactly remember your father’s name.” “Matthew Rivers, sir.” “Ah, of course—now I recollect. But how could you come here in this pelt- ing rain? You are literally drenched!” ‘Mo not mind me,” said May, rather impatiently; “tell me of my father!” “Not one word will I say until you have swallowed this,” said the doctor, producing a glass of some steaming mixture, which smelled and tasted like grog, but which he dignified by the name of universal tonic. May hesitated. “Do not delay,” said the doctor, laughing; “or I will not answer for the consequences. Rheumatic fever, or at least a cold in the head, will be the result.of your wetting, unless you take my prescription. There, you feel bet- ter already, don’t you?” he continued, as May sipped the steaming beverage. It really did her good, and so did the doctor’s cheery, jovial manner, for she thought: “If my father were worse, he surely would not talk thus to me.” You just “Now I will answer all your ques- tions. What do you want to know?” “Is my father better?” “Well, I think we may safely say he is; and if we could only get him out- side the prison walls, he might, with care, recover.” “Thank heaven!” May murmured; “my sacrifice has not been in vain. See here!” she added aloud, —‘here I have the receipt of his creditor for the full amount; he is a free man, to go whither he will.” “How on earth did you obtain that?” “The means do not signify, so that the end is accomplished.” “You are, indeed, a brave, noble- hearted girl!” “No, no! Do not say that!” “But I have said it; and, what's more, I mean it.” May disregarded the latter observa- tion; but, drawing nearer the doctor, she laid her tiny hand, upon which the golden wedding ring shone, upon his arm. “T am about to ask you a great fa- vor,” she said, “and one which you may not at first be disposed to grant; put, as you hope for happiness, I en- treat you not to refuse me. See, on my knees I implore you!” “But you haven't yet told me what it is.” “It is that you will take care of my dear father. I leave you this receipt, | in order that, by it, you may procure his release; and I beseech you, as a just and merciful man, that you will not suffer him to want when he has left the prison.’ “I do not exactly understand-—” “No,” answered May; “and I cannot explain. You must trust me.” “But you will remain in Winches- ter?” “No, no,” said May, in terror; “any- where rather that here!” “Put where are you going?” “I do not know. Oh, do not ask me. I must leave this dreadful town—I know nothing more.” “It is very strange.” Oh, do not question me!” said May, in an agony of supplication. “Say you will do all you can for my father!” “I will—I promise you.” “Thank you, thank you a thousand times!” cried May, passionately; and before the doctor knew what she was about, she had seized his hand, and covered it with kisses. “You will keep your promise?” she said, as she gathered her cloak about her. “Of that you may be sure. But you are not thinking of going out again in this pouring rain?” “T must.” “Nonsense. Stay here, and warm yourself till the storm abates its vio- lence.” “I cannot. If I stay any longer, he will come to seek me.” “He! Who?’ “My husband.” It was with difficulty she could bring herself to speak the name; and the doctor, noticing it, gave vent to his sur- prise in a prolonged whistle. “Heaven reward you for all your goodness!” said May, fervently, as she left the room. “That's a very remarkable young woman,” said the doctor to himself, as he resumed his book. And whither was May bound on leav- ing the prison? Anywhere rather that her husband's house. That was all the plan she had made —the entire resolution she had Formed ‘The storm raged as violently as ev when she left the prison, happy in the knowledge that her father’s liberation was procured. Instead, however, of hastening back to her husband's house, May turned her back upon Winchester, and started off, determined to exert all the re- maining strength she possessed in the endeayor to reach Portsmouth. For an hour or two she knew she was safe from pursuit, for John Grid- ley would believe her tv be at the prison; so if she could only get well upon her way in the first sixty min- utes, she might manage to escape him altogether. To do so was her whole design in going to Portsmouth. She knew no one there except the Deacons, and upon them she did not dare intrude with her grievances, for they had trouble enough of their own. David Deacon had been struck down the morning after his daughter Rose’s wedding with the lieutenant of the Osprey, who had befriended Ernest, by paralysis; and she did not dare intrude her sorrow upon those who were already suffering ¢o much. Poor May’s brain was in a whirl, and she could not sufficiently collect her senses to form any settled plan of action. Her father was free! The great end and aim of her existence was accom- plished, and now it mattered little what became of her. She plodded wearily along the Ports- mouth road in the pelting rain, heed- less of everything around her, Many were the wondering glances directed at this fair young girl, who, totally unprepared and undefended against the storm, walked on her way regardless of its fury. She had but little money in her pock- et, but still enough to supply her wants for the next two or three days. But, after that? She could not look forward beyond a few days. She knew not what would become of her—what she would do. It seemed like an event of long ago, her marriage with John Gridley, and it was with great difficulty she could bring herself to believe that it was only a few hours since she stood at the altar of the gloomy vault-like church, and became the wife of the man who had brought about her fa- ther’s ruin, By and by. a farmer, driving a light eart along the high road. overtook the poor girl. Good-naturedly he stopped his horse, and offered to give her a seat in his vehicle into Portsmouth. It was too good an offer to be re- fused, for May’s strength was rapidly deserting her, and thankfully she ac- cepted the proffered seat; and wrapped in a huge and warm rug, she performed the remainder of her journey in much less time, and without the fatigue of walking. She had no particular design in mak- ing for Portsmouth. Her object was to escape from him who was now her husband; and, further than that, she had resolved upon nothing. May’s wedding-night was passed in a small but clean and respectable inn, to which the gocd-natured farmer had rec- ommended her; passed in fitful, un- easy slumber, troubled with sad dreams —dreains that John Gridley pursued and overtook her, and dragged her back to serve him as a slave-wife—dreams that Ernest Hartrey returned to Eng- land to claim her for his bride. In the pale morning light she lay awake, miserable, wretched, and rest- less; thinking of death as the only friend who could come to her relief, and praying that he would not long delay his advent. Then her thoughts wandered to the day when she had almost brought her- Self to cominit the crime of self-destruc- tion. In her mind’s eye she saw again that | still, quiet pool, overshadowed by trees, and earnestly she wished that she were lying beneath the placid waters—her earthly sorrows terminated, her trou- bles at an end. Oh! why had Ernest’s aunt—why had Miss Agatha Henwood interfered that day to prevent her plunging into the quiet pool. It would have been far happier for her, she thought, if that day had been her last in this world. Then, as she recalled the! events of that autumn afternoon. the words of that kind old maid recurred to her, and sbe thought, “If I were to go to her, would she shelter and protect me?” She knew not in what direction to turn for friendly sympathy and coun- sel; and the words which Miss Hen- wood had spoken that day—the kind, womanly interest she had shown in her—made May feel that from her, though a comparative stranger, she would not seekein vain for comfort and advice. A coach left Portsmouth for Chiches- ter, she ascertained, early in the morn- ing, and to that city she paid her fare, ‘ Which left her only a few shillings in her purse; for she determined upon seeking out Ernest’s aunt, and telling her the whole story of her troubles and misfortunes. Blackrock, where Miss Henwood re- sided, was some little distance from Chichester; and it was as much as May’s faltering, trembling limbs could do to bear her to the fine country house, standing in large romantic grounds, where dwelt the good-natured old maid to whom our heroine had resolved to appeal for aid and protection. CHAPTER XXV. How John Gridley Received the News. For some hours after May’s depar- ture to liberate her father, John Grid- ley sat with a smile of triumph on his face. He had caged his bird; he had brought May Rivers to his feet in an attitude of supplication, and he was pleased with his success. She had scorned him, despised him, and hated him; yet now she was his wife. It was a grand triumph for him, though it was to be a short-lived one. The rain fell. the lightning flashed, and the thunder growled; but still May did not return to her husband’s house. The shades of night fell over the city of Winchester, but still she came not. John Gridley, now her law- ful lord and master, put on his heavy boots and thick waterproof cape to go up to the prison, and fetch her home. No thought of her having been bold enough to fly from him entered his head. He did not give her credit for so much courage or strength of mind, which only shows how little he knew of the lengths to which an outraged or aggrieved woman will proceed. In no very amiable frame of mind he plodded through the mud and rain to the prison. “Where's Matthew Rivers?” he asked, authoritatively. “The doctor had him removed to his own house, sir. He thinks it will be better for him.” The warder spoke with respect and touched his hat, for John Gridley was a rising man. “Ts any one with him?’ “The doctor, sir.” “No one else?” “No one.” # “Tell Dr. Harvey I should like to speak with him for a few minutes.” Presently, Dr. Harvey came, and when he saw who his visitor was, ad- yanced with outstretched hand and gen- ial manner. “Mr. Gridley, you have done a deed to-day worthy of you. You have saved the ‘poor man’s life.” “Of whom are you talking?’ “Matthew Rivers.” “Confound Matthew Rivers! What is his life to me?” said the model young man, brutally. “Is my—Is his daugh- ter with him?” “His danghter! hours since.” “Left! What do you mean?” said the husband of half a day. “Where has she one ?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. She seemed very much excited. Do you know her?” “Know her! Yes, she is—” he checked himself, and added, in a milder tone, “Yes, I have seen her several wo No; she left some “A charming young woman, appar- ently, though a little strange. Her father’s misfortunes appear almost to have turned her brain. From what she said, I gathered that she stood in ter- ror of a brute of a husband. She talk- ed of leaving the town.” “Leaving Winchester! Are you mad, or are you deceiving me? I swear, if you are practising any. deception upon me, I will not leave a whole bone in your body! Speak, can’t you; tell me all you know.” “Really, sir, this language is not that of one gentleman to another; unless you are more courteous, I shall decline to answer any further questions.” “By heaven, you shall answer!” | The doctor turned, and would have left the apartment in which they had been conversing, had not John Gridley seized him by the arm. “Forgive me,” he said, in a more con- ciliating tone. “The news you have given me is of greater importance than you imagine. For mercy’s sake, tell me all you know!” “Mr. Gridley, I can give you no fur- ther information. I repeat, the young lady told me she was going to leave Winchester immediately. I know no more.” “And you said nothing to prevent it? You did not detain her?’ “I detain her! You are dreaming! What affair of mine was it?’ “You, then, are the cause of all this! You it was who counselled her to fly from her lawful husband! Your med- dling has done this!” “I have had no hand in the matter, sir, as I told you before; nor do I see how the lady’s whereabouts can affect ‘ou.’ “Not affect me! She is my wife!” “Your wife!” “Yes. Now do you see what mischief your foolish meddling has done? Now do you see the evil of interfering with other person’s con*erns? You shall rue the afternoon’s work.” “I can only say, Mr. Gridley, that judging from your present violence, I do not wonder at your wife wishing to fly from you; and I think she has done quite right in making her escape from ; such a ruffian.” A second time the doctor turned to! quit the room; but ere he had reached the door, John Gridley, enraged by passion, flew at him like a tiger, and fastened his hands about his throat. Now, Dr. Harvey was a quiet, self- possessed man, and not easily roused; but he was strong and muscular, and found little difficulty in disengaging the hold of his assailant. John Gridley drew back, panting, for | a few seconds, and then again darted | at the doctor; but this time the latter | was prepared for the attack, and shot out his arm straight from the shoulder, and felled the model young man to the | ground. John Gridley lay motionless; and his late antagonist, with a quiet smile, knelt by his side, and placed his hand over his heart. “It is time I should drop the charac- ter of pugilist, and assume that of doc- | tor,” he muttered. So saying, he bathed his assailant’s | face, and was binding up his head in} linen bandages, when John Gridley re- - turned to consciousness. The evil spirit was still strong within | him; and, staggering to his feet, he | tore the bandages from him, and cast them on the ground. Then, witn an angry look of hate, he left the apartment without a word. | He was still dizzy from the effects of the blow; but he managed to reach | home in safety. | “Saddle the brown mare,” he growled | to his servant. | “Now, sir! Do you know how late | it is?” | “Do as you're told!” he cried, with | an oath. : | “Of course, she’s gone back to that Annadale!” he muttered; “but I'll find ; her, if I go to the furthest corner of the globe! I’ll break her proud spirit, | if I die for it!” | With this amiable determination he mounted his horse, and galloped off | into the black, stormy night. On, on he rode, urging his horse to | his utmost speed, muttering curses, | “not loud but deep,” against everything | and everybody. “Wooled—duped—and by her!” so ran | his thoughts. “She, the little village | girl, with her pale, white “ace, to trick | and deceive me thus! But I will be even with her yet! I will make her} wish that she had died rather than de- | ceive me thus!” Alike against| Matthew Rivers, and | Dr. Harvey, he breathed threats of | | vengeance. He was beside himself with passion, and scarcely knew what he said or did, but rode furiously on, | not even attempting to guide his horse, | who had instinctively taken the Ports- | muth road, as that most frequently traversed by its master. Then, as he still galloped forward, ! the storm burst a second time, and the rain fell in torrents. It was a dreadful thing, that furious, passinate man, whirling along amidst the fury of the elements, shouting | forth in impious 1age the most ter- rible threats and denunciations. Suddenly, from a black cloud over- | head, burst forth a dazzling sheet of electric fire, and at the same moment a deafening peal of thunder shook the earth. Affrighted, the horse came to a dead halt, almost throwing its rider over his head. Savagely, John Gridley plied his heavy ridingwhip, but without effect, for the poor, terrified beast, with trem- bling limbs, stood stock-still. With a fierce oath he dug his spurs into the animal’s quivering flank; but he was to pay the penalty for his cruel- t ‘2 The horse reared and stood erect, | pawing the air with his fore legs. John Gridley pulled at the curb with a vic- ious wrench, and the next moment lay prostrate in the muddy road He managed to escape being crushed by the horse as he fell; but his arm was beneath him, and when he tried to move it, it gave him exquisite pain... He managed to crawl to the roadside, and seat himself on a bank; but the agony he suffered was too great to permit him to pursue his way. In the thick night he knew not where he was. His horse was dead or dying; it was pouring with rain, and his arm was broken. All through the night he sat shivering and in the greatest pain, till with the early dawn came the sound of wheels in the distance, and then the merry song of a blithe farmer, whiling away the tedium of his drive with snatches of old English melody. In a faint voice, John Gridley called on him to stop. “Good gracious, man, ye’ve bad a bad time on it. Where be’st a-going?’ “Where am I? What road is this?” “Portsmouth road, sure-ly.” “Are you going into Portsmouth?” “No man; I’ve just come from thith- er.” “Turn round and drive me into the town, for pity’s sake! I will pay you well!” “J want none o’ your gold; but I'll | take you in, for all that.” The man was rough, but meant kind- ly and well; and John Gridley was }soon made as comfortable as possible in the straw on the bottom of the cart. “It’s a strange matter, master,” said the farmer, doing his best to be socia- ple; “but I be like to fall in with ad- ventures, I do. It was only last night, ds I came in to town, that I drove in one o’ the prettiest young girls I ever clapped eyes on.” \ “What was she like?’ asked John Gridley, eagerly. “Well, I ain't much of a hand at | ; else. | then between the thin, She’d started from Winchester she told me, to walk to Portsmouth. Poor little thing! She’d ha’ dropped long before she’d got there, if I hadn’t given her a lift.” « Despite the pain he was in, John Gridley could not help smiling at find- ing he was so close upon the track of her he was pursuing. . “Where did you take her in Ports- mouth?” “The ‘Golden Lion.’ ” “Drive me to the same place.” ~ But when John Gridley reached the “Golden Lion,” early in the morning, he was in no condition to carry out the threats of a few hours since. The pain of his broken arm, coupled with the excitement and the wetting, had conquered even his strong constitu- tion; and, helpless and unconscious, he was carried into the inn, where his wife was at that very moment. Happily for her she little knew how closely he had followed her. In bliss- ful ignorance, she left the inn, Jittle dreaming that, in a chamber close to the one she had occupied, lay the man with whom she had stood at the altar only a few hours since, and who had sworn to be revenged upon her for the deception she had practised upon him. At the end of the second day after John Gridley’s accident, when he was still confined to his bed, he fancied, as he lay between sleeping and waking, that a figure of a woman was flitting about the room. His eyes were dim, and his brain was dizzy; but in a feeble voice, he asked who was there. The form of a tall and graceful girl passed the foot of his bed, and then his hand, which lay outside the counter- ; pane, was raised quietly and tenderly, and he felt it pressed by her soft lips. “Who is it?” he asked. Then, as the face came nearer to | him, he recognized it. “Lucy!” he exclaimed, angrily; “what ill-luck brought me here?” “Do not be angry,” answered a soft voice, pleading piteously. “I meant no harm. Do not turn me away: | will nurse you better than any one Oh, John, John! you used to love me once! For mercy’s sake, in remembrance of the time that has gone, do not look so angrily at me!” “Get hence! You must be mad!” “No, no, John; not mad—only loving! I would die as I have lived, for you alone.” “I tell you it was an evil hour for you when you came here to seek me out. It was a foolish action, and you will rue the consequences.” “Let me stay with you?” pleaded the tall girl. “No, no, I tell you! it will be the worse for you! me, I say!” She made no reply; but her beautiful, Leave me, or Leave well-formed head drooned lower and | lower, till it rested on her hands, and delicate fingers came trickling faster and faster the bitter tears of sorrow. She spoke no word of complaint—she made no sorrowful loan, for the heart that was once hers, but was now es- tranged. She had wasted her entire ; soul in love for this cruel, hard, pas- | sionate, sinful man; and he after a few weeks had tired of her, and had flung | her aside, as a child a broken toy; but yet she loved him still; ay, loved him so well that she would have suffered much for him patiently, and without other reward than a kind smile or an affectionate word. John Gridley lay in bed, still angry and ferocious with the world in gen- eral; and as no one was present to whom he could show his ill-humor but Lucy, he let her have the full benefit | of his evil passions. “Come, come,” he cried, roughly; “I | want to hear none of this whimpering and sighing. Be off with you!” “Oh, anything rather than that! Let me stay with you! Who has a better right than'I to do so?” “My wife has,” answered Gridley, slowly at the same time fixing his eyes steadfastly on Lucy’s face, to see whether she quailed at the words. “Your wife—your wife!”? said the tall girl, dreamily, for the sound fell almost without meaning upon her ears. “Yes—my wife. You need not repeat the words after me. I have married since I last saw you.” “Married! Oh, John, what do you mean? Tell me yeu are joking! I am your wife, am I not? What means this ying upon my finger—this plain gold circlet placed there by you yourself, if it be not that I am your lawful wife?” John Gridley laughed low in reply. “Speak, speak! I must and will have an answer! Tell me—am I not your wife?” . In her feverish eagerness she had thrown herself upon her knees by the bedside, and held forth her arms in an attitude of supplication. “Am I not your wife?” she repeated. “No! The marriage was a false one!” answered the model young man, with that coolness which characterized his speeches and actions when with those whom he knew he might safely bully. “False! false!’ she muttered after him; and the words sounded dismally even to John Gridley’s hardened con- science. “Oh, John, but you have not married another? Only tell me this, and I can bear the rest. Tell me you love me —a little—just a little!” She threw her arms about his neck as she spoke, and, leaning her head upon his shoulder, sobbed aloud. “Out with you!” cried John Gridley, angrily; “can’t you leave me alone?” With his sound arm he pushed her violently, almost fiercely from him. She staggered across the room and fell, cutting her forehead as she did so. She rose to her feet after a moment’s rest, with a sorrowful look in her eyes, but no tears now. Without a look, a word, or a sign, she quitted the chamber, and John Gridley was left alone to indulge his own wicked reflections. CHAPTER XXVI. Luey. Miss Agatha Henwood recognized May as soon as she saw her, in spite of the alteration sorrow and care had made in the few months which had elapsed since their last meeting. “What do you want, my poor girl?” asked the old maid, pityingly. “Can 1 kelp you in any way?” “Oh, yes! Save me—protect me from him—and I will bless you as long*as I have power to draw my breath!” “Protect you fron whom?’ “From John Gridley. He is follow- ing me, and will soon be here. Do not anything like description, frightful pale and delicate-looking. | to me. or I shall die-” “But why do you stand in such ter- ror of him?” “He is the cause of all the evil that has befallen my father, and he is the destroyer of all my happiness! Oh, prone me you will protect me from mi!” “Yes, yes, my poor child,” said Miss Henwood, soothingly. “He shall hurt you, I will take care of that.” | a “Oh, thank you—thank you, ve} much! My head!” she exclaimed, an she raised her hands to her throbbing EDs, and then sank down exhaust- ed. All the color had fled from her face. She was ghastly pale, and her pulse beat so feebly, that more than once Ernest Hartrey’s aunt thought the poor, suffering girl had breathed her last. ‘Tenderly she bethed her aching fore- head, and sought to restore the circu- lation to those numbed limbs; and, after awhile, success rewarded her ex- ertions. No sooner had Miss Henyood per- ceived how seriously ill the maltster’s daughter was than she despatched one of her se nts on horseback to bring back a docter from Chichester. Dr. Rose was a merry, plump little man, with large eyes, white hands and an agreeable manner, though some- what hrasque. He was alnest always smiling, but when his eyes rested on May, as she lay on a couch in the drawing room at Blackrock, the smile faded from his face, and he looked particularly grave. Miss Henwood, who knew him well, saw immediately, by the expression of his countenance, that the illness of the maltster’s daughter was something more serious than she had imagined. “Weill, doctor?’ she said, inquiring- But Dr. Rose only shook his head in reply. “Is she very i?” “Yes; much more so than you imag- | ine.” “Will she recover?” “With care and attention, she may; but her whole nervous system has ex- perienced a great shock, her body is | worn out with fatigue, and her mind affected. She is in a critical position.” “What is to be done?” “That depends upon yourself.” “How so?” ‘If she has rest, freedom from all ex- citement, good medical attendance and great attention, she may recover.’ “Of course she can have all this?” “I do not see the ‘of course.’ Where does she live?” hardly know—Annadale, lieve.” “She will never bear the removal thither.” “The removal thither! What is the man talking about? She must remain here, of course.” And so it was settled that May Riv- ers—or rather May Gridley hould re- main an inmate at Blackreck; fer Miss Henwood was a good-natured, kind- hearted woman, and would willingly I be- | do all in her power to aid the recovery of the poor girl who had thrown her- | self upon her for protection. A room was speedily prepared for her, and a few hours after her arrival at Blackrock, poor little Ma; y in a grend bed, standing in a luxuriously furnished chamber, without knowing where she was or to whom she was indebted for so much kindness. Everything which money could pur- chase, or Kindness procure, wes there to lessen the danger of her illness; and Miss Henwood herself wa3 he nt attendant, soothing the por ,~ in every way, moistening" a 4 ver-parched lips, and cooling “he ng brow. Yet, after all, “Aunt Agatha” knew little or nothing of her for whom she was doing so much; but then, that little she did know was so much in her favour, that she cheerfully sur- rendered all her time to nursing the sick girl. Dr. Rose, too, was indefatigable; and many were the afternoons when those two kind friends of May’s sat at a little table opposite each other playing piequet, Dut ready at the slightest movement in the bed where the poor sufferer lay, to start to their feet and minister to her wants. It was a fortunate thing for our heroine that she had gone to Black- rock, for with less care and attention than: she reccived there, a few 4: would have ended her earthly su ings, and Ernest Hartrey would have returned to England to find, not a loving bride, but a gravestone to the memory of May, tke wife of John Gridley. Perhaps it will be said such would have been the best and happiest ter- mination for them both. And where was Ernest Hartrey, when her he loved so well was lying in his aunt’s house, hovering betwixt life and death? He was speeding rapidly homeward. He was bowling over the great ocean, in a fine barque, before a fair wind. with a browned face and a happy heart; for he dreamed his troubles near at end, and he looked forward with delight to his mesting with his darling May. Yes—in less than a fortnight he hoped to clasp in his arms that fair young girl whom he loved so wel! and whom he intended with the lea: possible delay to make his wife. Could he but have known all tha’ had happened—could he but have fore seen the crushing news which woul greet his arrival in England—his laug would have been less ready, his jok less frequent than it was. Had any one dared to whisper t him that May, his May. was the wif: of another, he would scarcely hav been able to restrain his anger; ye such would have been no more tha the truth. May Rivers had wedded the ma: who had robbed and intended t drown him, Leaving Ernest Hartrey tgenjoy fo a few days longer the belie*that Ms would soon become hisawife, let 1 return to some other of our character or iF ij of whom we took leave somewha “==> abruptly in the last chapter. ; Who ‘vas that tall, fraceful girl, wh had watched and tended John Gridle in his illness, till driven away fro: his bedside by his brutality? ‘Who was that Lucy who claimed as her right to be with him, bru‘: and unlovable as he was? Who was she, and in what relati: did she stand to our heroine’s bu band? ‘That we shall shcrtly learn. i (To Be Continued.) ee