Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, October 24, 1896, Page 2

Nie RA AIS Ra A Cc merge HNN (HH any information from me you must be more explicit.” “It is no use prevaricatng, madam. You cannot deceive me, for I act upon certain knowledge. I know she is in this house.” “I know neither you ner your wife, nor do I desire to do so.” “Yet you knew one May Rivers.” “What has that to do with it?” “Only that May Rivers is now May Gridley—my wife.” ONLY DAUGHTER. CHAPTER XXVI—(Continued.) ‘And what did she do after quitting the room where John Gridley lay? She sat herself down outside the door, and sobbed, with her face buried in her hands, till her whole frame heaved convulsively. “He struck me--he pushed me from him,” she moaned; “he turned me away,—I. whe have no thought but for his welfare— who would give my life to save him an hour's pain?” The tears which she restrained in his presence now flowed fast and copiously; but much as she loved the man in every way so unworthy of her affection, she could not hide from herself that he had beh: ved cruelly— most cruelly. Yet she showed herself a true wo- man; for she sought to find excuses for the inexcusable conduct of him she loved. Her anger was not directed against Jokn Gridley, but against that woman who had dared win his affection. “Marricd—imarricd!” she cried to herself. “It impossible! He could not have meant it? Who could it be? Who was the wo- man who dared step between them ar her hapviness? y she made her way down the nd out from the inn into the then gradually quickening he> pace, she walked on and on out of the crowded thoroughfares of the dirty town into the country. The old store-shops and the public $ gave way to neat dwelling- which occurred at longer and intervals as she pursued her way, t.ll at last the bricks and mortar of the town of Portsmouth gave way to the green hedges and trees of the country, Yet it was not to enjoy the beauties of nature that Lucy had left the ‘Golden Lion.” She walked steadily on, scarcely be- stowing a passing glance upon them. She had evidently some set purpose in view. Portsmouth was left behind; but atill she continued unflaggingly upon her way, looking not behind, where the hovering cloud of smoke, and the line of sparkling water, told of the presence of the large town, but, with her gaze fixed steadily before her. she plodded onward. There was a firm, fixed expression on her face, not of anger, but of rief—there was a settled determ‘na- fon in every action. It was no light matter which had breught her out upon this country road, and which led her on towards a little village, the spire of the chw'ch of which now rose froin out a clump of graceful trees, shining and glitter- ing in the brilliant sunshine. It was a pretty little village this to which Lucy had directed her steps. A village, with picturesque cottages— with queer gable-ends—with a quaint, vld, red brick church, and with creeper covered porches. A village, theinhabitant3 of which lived in summer time mostly in public, with open doors and windows—such a village, in shert. as would have at- tained any artist's eye and made him long to transfer it to his sketch- book. Heedless of the curious glances di- rected towards her by the villagers, Lucy walked quietly and steadily past the cottages until she reached the ehurchyard. Pushing open the little gate which ave entrance to it, she walked in; and hen seating herself to rest awhile be- neath a splendid yew tree,her thoughts flew back to long ago—to the time when she was a pretty. little country girl, like those whose laughter she heard sounding from a neighboriag field. All was bright and fair with her un- til the day of her meeting with John Gridley. From that day she could date all her sorrows and misfortunes, After a time she rose again to her feet and entered the sacred edifice. It was one of those days upou which the church appoints certain services for morning and afternoon; and as Lucy entered the sound of children’s voices joined in a hymn of praise, sraote upon her ear. How the sounds carried her back to He days of childish innocence. The service concluded, she sought the clergyman in the vestry. It was but a little thing she wanted—only the copy of an entry from the parish reg- ister—only a small piece of parchment duly signed and attested. . She paid the usual fee and received it from the hands of the poor, feeble old man, whom she remembered well, put whose failing vision prevented him from recognizing her. She folded the document carefully and concealed it in the bosom of her ress before she quitted the church; and then slowly and pensively re- traced her steps through the church- ard, and through the little village into the main road, and so back at last to Portsmouth. : To Portsmouth; but not to the Gold- en Lion. Much as she loved John Gridley— much as she wasted her affection on ene in every way undeserving of it— she could not humble herself so far as to seek him again after the blow he had inflicted upon her. On her forehead was still a faint, red mark where her head had come in contact with the cabinet. Yet she felt no anger against the man who had caused the wound. She svould not believe that he had intend- ed to use so much force in pushing her from him, even when she remembered how basely he had deceived her; how he had told her that he was the hus- band of another; her anger was di- rected against that other, and not against John Gridley. He was her ido}. She had elevated him in her heart above all others. To her he was handsomer, cleverer and better than the whole world beside; and she could never dethrone him— éhe-could not debase him from the high pinnacle where she herself aad placed him. Rut that other! a TAAAAAAAAAAAAADALAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASAAAAAARAAAAAADAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAASLAARAAAAAAD ‘That other should learn what it was to rob one of her own sex of the love she cherished ‘That other should be made to know what it was that she had dcne; should be bur bled, should be triumphed over. But who was she? To find out who it was who had alienated the affection she prized so much must now be the primary object of her existence. John Gridley might tyrannize over her, ill-treat, nay, even beat her, so that she might still nourish the belief all his old love had entirely fled. She could bear anything rather than the knowledge that he no longer cared for her. He had told her he was married to another; still, in spite of the words he had spoken, in spite of his harsh lan- guage, in spite of his cruel blow, he was still to her the hero he had ever been. She had no desire to harm him, to wish to punish him for his deception. She longed for his happiness. But what she could not bear was the thought that it was to be shared with him by another. Poor Lucy! She little dreamed how her idol was hated and despised by the girl whom he had forced into becom- ing his wife. She could not imagine that any one could choose but love the man who was all in all to her. She resolyed upon the course she would pursue. She would find out this girl whom John Gridley had married; she would tell her all her own miserable story; she would strive her utmost to separ- ate her from him; and then, by slow degrees, win back the love and affec- tion which had once been hers, and ¥ h she could not bring herself to believe was gone forever. CHAPTER XXVIU. Miss Agatha Henwood’s Visitor. A week had passed since the occur- rence of the events narrated in the Jast chapter, and May was pronounced by Dr. Rose to be in a fair way to re- coy No words can tell of the great hind- ness of that good-hearted doctor; but is such praise be awarded to him, what language is to be employed when speaking of Miss Agatha Herwood? She gave up her time entirely to bardly ever leaving her bedside, ng to all Ler wants, and treat- ing her as if she had been ber daugh- ter. “It was not fer her own sake alone,” she explained one day to the doctor, “but for Ernest’s. He may arrive in England any se know, and then he'll have a word or two of kindness tor his old aunt, for the care she has taken of his bride.” “Will he marry Rose, doubtiogly. “If he does uot, doctor, he’ll never have a penny of my money,” from which speech it will be seen fist Miss Henwood knew nothing of our hero- ine’s union with John Gridley. “What does Sir Harold say to the match?” ‘Sir Harold, like a vast number of silly, opinionated, pursc-prond men, would rather have his son married to a Hottentot, with ten thouserzd a year, than a pretty, sensible, darling girl lik> May Rivers, without a farthing.” ‘And you think your nephew will soon be home again?" “Yes. He may return at eny hour.” There was a faint moan of pain from the bed on which May lay, for the conversation had taken place m her sick room, and Miss Henwood hurvied to the bedside. May lay with her face concealed by the clothes but she was trembling vio- lently. She had heard the words just spok- en. She had learned that Ernest Hart- rey was expected almost hourly, and that he would come to where sh2 was; wonld be beneath the same roof with her; but the barvier would be greater than when he was at Barbadoes, with miles and miles of ocean rolling be- tween them. What would he think of her? He would never believe that she had real- ly loved him, when he returned to find her the wife of another. She was seized with an ardent long- ing to leave the house—to fly, she cared not whither—so that she might not be brought face to face to face with the man whom, a fortnight s:nce, it had been the deatest desire of her heart to see. It was very dreadful, but what was to be done? She could hardly move without assistance, so how could she leave the house? Then she thought that she might once more see his face, and hear him speak—that she might gaze uyon him yet again, even though it might be for tbe last iime. Surely, she thought, there could be no liarm in that. She would see him when he arrived, and tell him every- her?” asked Dr. think of each other—that they must banish love from their hearts. Poor. little thing! Did she think love and thougit were so much under com- mand as to come aud go at bidding? “A gentleman wishes to speak with you, Miss Henwood,” said a servant, at the door of the sick room. “What's his name?” “He refused to give it. He said he wished to speak to you upon important business.” Miss Henwood went down stairs into the drawing room and there found a handsome man, with black hair and eyes, but with a complexion as pale as death, awaiting her. One arm he carried in a sling, and as he spoke his mouth twitched ever and anon as if from pain. “Miss Henwood, I believe?” Aunt Agatha bowed. “May I request you to state your business with me?” “It is soon done. my wife.” “Is the man mad,” thought the lady; but she only said, “I do not understand you, sir.” “Yet I spoke plainly. I repeat, I want my wife” “Roallv. sir. if vou wish to receive I come to demand thing—tell him that they must no more | “Impossible!” The man showed his white teeth in a snarling smile. “Are you John Gridley?” “That is my name.” “And you mean to tell me that May Rivers has actually married you? Why, man, I tell you that she hates you—there is no one of whom she stands so much in dread.” “Cause and effect,” sneered Gridley. “She is my wife.” “Take care what you say. May Rivers is now in this house, and the truth or falsehood of your statement can easily be ascertained.” “I know she is in the house, and hence my journey here to-day. You cannot detain her against my will. I beg you will cause her to be informed | that I am waiting to take her home.” “She cannot go with you. For the last week she has been confined to her bed.” “That may or may not be true; but go with me she must and shall!” “Go with you she shall not. You may talk till doomsday, but I am mis- tress here!” “And think proper to encourage a wife to desert her husband! A pretty mistress, truly!” “Silence, sir! minute!” “Not without my wife. Do you know you are acting illegally in detaining her?” “Acting fiddlesticks! The laws of | heaven are higher than those of men; and whether illegal or not, from this house she does not go. It would be certain death to her.” “At all events, I must see her’”’ | “At all events you must do nothing | of the sort. You may bluster as you will and it won’t frighten me, for I have lived long enough to know and understand those who seek to intimi- | date the weak and cringe to the strong. | Your wife—if May Rivers is your wife “is in this house, but you shall not see her! There! that is quite plain! Do what you like.” “You shall repent this conduct, madam! I will move all the powers of heaven and earth to revenge myself!“ answered John Gridley ferociously. “You pervert my wife’s mind—you keep her here for your fine nephew to make love to. Under the guise of friendship for her, you nourish plans which—” John Gridley had worked himself up into a passion, when Miss Henwood interrupted him by saying deliberately and coolly: “Mr. Gridley, there are two exits from this room—one by the door, unaided, one by the window, assisted by my servants. Choose which you | prefer, but do not speak another word, | or I shall make the selection for you.” John Gridley was cowed. When in one of his passions he could return bluster for bluster, and oath for oath; put he could not reply to the calm, contemptuous words of scorn which | Miss Henwood uttered as he shuffled | past her to the door. \""He glanced at her from under his | scowling brow with a look of unmiti- | gated hate, but he spoke not a word. | With nothing more than a muttered threat, he slank away out of the room, | pteferring the door to the window. It would have been a bad thing for a dog or 2 horse to be his property at that moment, when he emerged from the grounds of Blackrock into the high road. The worst of his evil passions were running riot within him. Such pas- sions as caused him to beat the poor idiot boy about the head with the cudgel when he was senseless and in- capable of offering any resistance; such passions as made him shake his | fist and defy the whole village of An- madale; such passions as had made him push the girl who loved him so dearly away from him with cruel vio- lence. He was going back into Chichester to meet the coach by which he could return to Portsmouth, to meditate upon fresh wickedness, to make new plots | to undermine May’s peace of mind. “If she dies!” he thought. Then, the next moment, he stamped his foot angrily on the ground. “She shall not die!” he cried with an oath, “until I have had my revenge for the trick she played me.” That is what hurt John Gridley—the idea that he—the clever and model young man—should have been duped by a girl over whom he believed he had absolute power. Not that May had any object in view beyond her own escape, but to her husband’s distorted imagination it seemed like a carefully matured plot to bring insult and dis- grace upon him. Miss Henwood was deeply affected | by the news that May was already a wife. She was not angry- with the pocr girl, for she was just; but she | could not cheose but sigh for her hopes and chances of the future to be thus dashed away. Dr. Rose was still in the house, and to him she told the whole story. He ceceived it professionally. That is to say, he neither moved, laughed, smiled nor frowned; but. with a wise and somber air, something between a | justice on the bench and an owl in an ivy bush, listened attentively. “Don’t tell her anything about it,” | he said in a whisper as they approach- ed the sick room. They entered it together. Sitting up in her bed, her face ex- pressing the most abject fright, was poor little May. She hardly noticed the entrance of Miss Henwood and the doctor, but kept her eyes riveted on the door as if in dreadful auticipation of seeing a third enter. “He is not here—he has left,” said Dr. Rose quietly, who saw in an in- stant how thirgs stood. “I heard his voice,” said May in alarmed tones. “I though as much.” muttered the doctor, making a sign to Aunt Agatha to remain silent. “Oh, keep him from me!” she cried in anguish. “Dv not let him come near me for he will kill me!” Dr. Rose laid an authoritative hand upon her shoulder. “Lie down, my dear,” he said. “He has gone away-—left the house alto- gether—and you may be sure I will take enough care to prevent his com- | ing in and annoying you.” Leave the house this Before he knew what he was about she had seized his hand and kissed it with the fervor of gratitude. “Still, I should like to know—” com- menced Miss Henwood. “Hush! No questions yet; she is not strong enough to bear them.” Aunt Agatha could not help feeling curious; but she smothered the feeling at the doctor’s command; and May soon sank again into that quiescent state from which the sound of that dreaded voice of John Gridley—of her husband-—had aroused her. “If she has nothing to excite her,” said Dr. Rose, “she will be able to sit up in a week’s time.” ; But John Gridley was not going to suffer a week to elapse without taking some steps to ascertain how best he could gain his hold upon poor, tremb- ling, little May. Fortune made him think of Sr Har- old Hartrey. Who was more likely to help him? Sir Harold was likely to do anything to make his son’s marriage with May an impossibility. He was a magistrate —he was a near relative of Miss Hen- wood's. John Gridley made his way to Hart- rey Park, sought and obtained an in- terview with the old baronet and heard from him that Aunt Agatha had no right to keep him away from his wife. The news that May was married gave Sir Harold unqualified delight. He looked forward to his son’s re- turn to England with more pleasure, now that it was impossible for him to lower himself by wedding the mal- ster’s daughter. In the meantime the clouds were gathering for a coming storm. John Gridley’s toils, spread for oth- ers, were closing around himself; but he knew it not, and was rushing blind- ly to his own destruction. CHAPTER XXVIII. The Pistol Shot. Sir Harold Hartrey felt a great load taken off his mind when he learned that May was the wife of John Grid- ley, for in the letter he had received from his son, giving an account of his forcible abduction from England, there were several allusions to the peasant girl whom he intended to make his wife, and the old baronet knew Ernest too well to suppose him capable of re- linquishing an object upon obtaining which he had set his heart. The time was rapidly approaching when he might expect to welcome his only son home again; and he could not help rejoicing and being inwardly thankful that Ernest’s compulsory voyage to Barbadoes had altogether put an end to an alliance which would have given his proud spirit infinite pain. Fully determined upon removing his wife from Blackrock, John Gridley had made a second visit to Miss Hen- wood's residence, but with even less success than before, for he was not even permitted to enter the house. May had recovered sufficiently to converse; and, as Aunt Agatha deemed it important that she should know the exact tyuth of the marriage, she bad yentured to broach the subject to May, who, with many tears and en- treaties for protection, had narrated how she had sacrificed herself to pro- eure her father’s liberation from prison. “Be sure, my dear,” said Miss Hen- wood kindly, “ihat you shall remain an inmate of this house for as long a time as you may desire. You need not fear John Gridley. He cannot force his way here.” She meant fully what she said, but she little knew who she had to deal with when she spoke thus of quietly getting rid of a man who had deter- mined that, come what might, poor lit- tle May should be made to repent having deceived him—trapped him into giving an acknowledgment of the debt by which he had held his power over Matthew Rivers, and then deserted him, leaving him foiled and baffled in what he had believed to be his hour of triumph. May was his lawfully wedded wife, and Miss Henwood had no right to keep her from him; but she determined she would for all that, and so she told the poor girl who had thrown herself upon her for protection. Foiled a second time in obtaining an interview with his wife John Gridley left Blackrock, his face transformed with passion, his brow lowering, his hands clenched, and as he strode along the road to Chichester he vowed that May should yet be his. To Hartrey Park he betook himself and sought and obtained a second in- terview with its owner. Sir Harold, between whom and his sister there was, as already stated, lit- tle love lost, was indignant at the course she chose to pursue in detaining May from her husband, ‘and it required but little persuasion on the part of Gridley to induce Sit Harold to prom- ise on the following day to ride over to Blackrock to argue with Miss Hen- wood on the subject and inform her of the illegality of her proceedings. It was a lovely autumn morning, and May, now convalescent, sat at the win- dow of the comfortable little room which Miss Henwood had given up to her. She was pale and thin from the ef- fects of her recent illness, but yet there beamed in her face a wondrous beauty, a more refined loveliness than when she had been a belle of Annadale, the malster’s daughter. She had striven, and with tolerable success, to banish all thoughts of Ern- est Hartrey from her mind; for she knew, that though she might be sepa- rated from her husband, she was none the less married. And where was Ernest Hartrey? He was much nearer to her than she imagined. He was returning to Eng- land; he was close to its white cliffs and would soon be seeking his bride. Who would break the news to him and how would he bear it? ‘As she sat listlessly gazing from the casement, longing for the time when she would be strong enough to saunter on the smooth green lawn, or ramble beneath the splendid trees which made the grounds of Blackrock park-like in appearance, she saw a lumbering, open chariot coming up the steep ascent through the grounds. ‘The chariot contained two gentlemen —one, an aristocratic, well dressed man of rather imposing appearance; the other— Her heart beat violently, the color rose to her face as she leaned eagerly forward to ascertain who was the sec- ond occupant of the vehicle. It was John Gridley. She sank back terrified in her seat as she recognized her husband. Her terror of him increased daily, almost hourly; and, despite the assutances of kind Miss Henwood, and awful dread that he would force his way to her chamber and drag her by main force away from the kind-hearted old lady who had so humanely sheltered her, took possession of her. ‘: With bated breath she listened for any sounds ascending from the lower rooms to tell her what was passing. She would not for the world have faced her husband; her courage was insufficient for that. In her excited imagination she thought only of his seizing her round the waist and forcibly carrying her back to Winchester. Every moment seemed a lifetime to her after she saw the chaise drive away unoccupied from the door; for from that she knew that the visitors had obtained admission. Her hope had been that they might be refused an entrance, for Miss Hen- wood had told her that the servants had strict orders to close the door in the face of John Gridley. And so they had; but not when he came under the protection of a baronet and a magis- trate. Could May only have known how Miss Henwood had been occupied since she left her in that little room; could she but have heard a conversation which had taken pla between her ind protector and a visitor whose rival she had not seen, her mind would have been somewhat easier; but she knew nothing of this. She was only cognizant of the fact that the man she dreaded most in the world was beneath the same roof with her; and she knew well enough, too, upon what errand he had come. Her breath came quick and fast, her heart palpitated quickly, as she still sat gazing from the window but see- ing nothing. She no longer had eyes for the beau- tiful panorama of wooded hills stretch- ed befere her, with the magnificent foreground of the Blackrock lawn and She could feel no interest in a pe, from which she expected y moment to be torn a 4 She heard the sound of voices below ever and anon rising, as if in angry discussion; but it told her nothing; it only increased her fears As she gazed tremblingly and fear- fully from the window her attention was for a few minutes dis ted by the approach of two horsemen riding rapidly up the steep hill, where the chariot which had borne her husband to the house had ascended a short time before. One sat his horse easily and grace- fully as if accustomed to the saddle; but his companion cut such an absurd figure that any other time she could not have helped smiling at his appear- ance, as, rolling first on one side and then on the other, he could hardly man- age to retain his seat by grasping the pommels of the saddle. As he approached nearer she per- ceived that he was a negro, and then in the other, with a little scream of joy, she recognized Ernest Hartrey! Yes, despite the bronzed face and bushy beard she knew her lover and hailed his advent with delight. All her resolutions to forget him, or to look upon him only as a dear friend, were gone in a moment. She saw, close to her, the only man she ever had or could love; and her heart bounded raptureusly, and a feeling of security, which Miss Henwood’s promises could not give, filled her breast. Ernest was in the house, so what harm could come to her? So ske thought and felt, as, leaning from the window, she saw him spring from the saddle, and, throwing the reins carelessly to Caleb, enter the house. What was about to happen? She felt as if no evil could affect her now that Ernest was there to shield her with his strong arm. Surely be was all-powerful; and even if the news of her marriage, compul- sory though it had been, angered him, still his love could not depart so sud- denly as to suffer him to leave her to the tender mercies of John Gridley. She knew the meeting between the two men would be a terrible onc; for the villain she was forced to call hus- pand had done ihe other grievous and Ernest was not the man to let it go unatoned. She listened eagerly for some sound from the lower rooms, but all was silent. The suspense became almost unbear- able. After some time of anxiovs waiting she resolved that come what might she must ascertain what was passing at the conference which was to affect the whole of her future life—the debate which was life and death to her—for, as the wife of John Gridley, she knew she could not live. She was very feeble yet, and hardly able to walk unassisted; but, by the help of the furniture, she made her way to the door of the room and open- ed it. Then the sound of voices in angry discussion fell on her listening ears. She determined to descend the stairs, but before she could do so the sound of a fierce cry, followed by the sharp report of a pistol, echoed through the passage. Then came a shrill cry of pain and sounds as of scuffling in the hall. May staggered rather than walked back to the window of her room and reached it in time to see John Gridley rush from the door of the house. With one blow he felled the negro, Caleb, who stood holding the horses, to the ground, and, vaulting into the saddle of the nearest ,galloped rapidly down the drive. Ernest Hartrey,was at the door a moment later, and leaping upon the other horse started in hot pursuit. Miss Henwood, the baronet and the servants came crowding out upon the lawn, and in as short a time as was possible Sir Harold and some three or four men servants were mounted on horseback and spurring with utmost d after the other two. ‘What did it mean? What could have happened? May eagerly asked herself, but she was at a loss to account for the events which had taken place in the last few minutes. Ernest was safe! That was her first thought, for she had feared when she heard the report of the pistol that he it was who had fallen a victim to John Gridley’s fury. Again poor little weak May strove to reack the door to discover wnat had taken place below, but ere she could open it her strength deserted her and she sank senseless on the ficor. CHAPTER XXIX. Home Again. The good ship in which Ernest Hart- rey had engaged a passage to England for himself and the faithful. negro, Caleb, performed her voyage in some- thing under the average time. It is almost needless to say that Ernest was one of the first to enter the boat when she came alongside at Spithead. How familiar it all seemed to him, ‘'Th$ aspect of the town, the harbor, the distant Isle of Wight,—all just as when he left the country on beard the Osprey. But what alterations might he not find when he landed? ‘The house was there, indeed; but might not many houses have been pulled down, and others built? May, too, would be there, the same exter- nally; but what might not have hap- pened in the interval to pull him down from the place he had formerly occu- pied in her affections—what new im- age might not have been erected? Still he had faith in the poor little country girl who had loved him so truly a twelvemonth since, and did not doubt that she would welcome him with open arms. Hardly waiting to refresh himself in Portsmouth, he hired a horse, and putting Caleb, though much against his will, upon another, he started for Annandale; and by making good speed re d the village just as the shades of night were falling upon it. He had never been there before, and consequently did not know the cottage the Rivers’ family had occupied. Reining in his horse at the little inn already several times mentioned in thi: ory, he dismounted; and Caleb, grinning with delight at being allowed to get from out the saddle, to which he had been clinging like grim death for the greater part of the way, fol- lowed him into the pretty and pictur- esque little building where the vil- lagers of Annandale drank their pint of home-brewed and smoked their pipes on turday evenings. Annadale is a very different place now. The railway passes through it, and there is a flaring red brick tavern now, where the diamond-windowed, clematis-covered porched inn once stood. The pretty little cottages, too, have been swept away, and Annadale now has a High street, and a row of shops; and on the spot where May Rivers once lived there now stands an un- gainly station, where the red and green lights wink and blink through the night, as the roaring expresses rattle through the village; for though, as aforesaid, Annadale hed actually a High street, only the slow trains condescended to stop at the little sta- tion to take the market folk into Portsmonth. When Ernest Hartrey entered the inn, the landlord came forward, bow- ing and obsequious. It was seldom that more exalted personages than the neighboring farm- ers entered the little inn, and the land- lord hardly knew, how best to show suflicient attention to his visitor. Yet there was something in his ap- pearance which made the landlord rather cautious. He wore a great beard and mustache, and that, in the days when it was part of every one’s creed to shave, was suspicious in it- self; and then, he had a black servant. Now, negroes were not in the habit of coming to Annadale; and their was something in the poor fellow’s shining black face, wide-grinning mouth, and white teeth, suggestive to uneducated minds of the father of all evil; and the villagers assembled in the parlor form- ed a circle round Ernest and his at- tendant, taking care, however, to keep at a respectful distance. “With what can I serve your hon- or?” asked the landlord, bowing low. “See to the horses first,” said Ern- est; “and then I want a few minutes’ conversation with you.” With another bow, the man was gone, and Ernest stood impatiently awaiting his return, for his heart yearned for May. He longed to clasp her again in his arms, and hear from her own lips that her love had not wavered, and that her feelings towards him were the same as when, by the sea-shore, he had first imprinted a kiss upon her lips, and heard the glad news that she returned his love. “What will your worship please to take?’ said the landlord, varying the form of a question he had already asked half a dozen times. é “Give my servant. something to eat snd dvink; I don't want anything at sent.” 3 ‘Our food and ale only good enough for an ugly black fellow!’ muttered the iunkeeper, brt not so low that Caleb could not hear. “Great, ugly, black fellar you-self,” said he, grinning from ear to ear. “You tink cause I black tief nigger I no want food? Gar long!” “Never mind bim,” said Ernest rath- er impatiently; “come here, mine host I have some questions 1 want to ask you.” “J am at your honor’s service.” “Well, then, do you know some peo ple living here of the name of Rivers? “I did, your honor.” “Did! What has become of them?” The innkeeper shook his head. “No good, sir; no good; root ané branch gone to the bad!” ‘Speak—what do you mean, man?” said Ernest angrily. “If you are de ceiving me it will be the worse for you. £xplain yourself.” “Your honor needn’t get excited ovey it; but it's every word true—gospel true. They’ve all gone except the poo, old woman--she lies yonder!” and he pointed to the churchyard. “Het daughter broke her heart.” “Tis false!” exclaimed Ernest. ‘1 will not believe it.” “That don’t make it the less true.” “No, no; I was hasty; but I knew her of whom you speak and cannot readily believe evil of her.” The way the landlord shook his head was a triumph. Ie expressed more that gesture than by half a score his words. “Tell me how it happened.” “Well, sir—Matthew Rivers’ dafigh ter—May, they called her, as perl your worship knows—was a pretty girl, but proud.” ‘I could strangle the fellow!” though eeAnd wh “And when a rich youn; ‘tlemar fell in love with her, shed pres noth ing to say to a deserving young max whom her father wanted her & marry.” “So far, so good; go on.” “She tried to make out some case of robbery or treason or something dread ful against him.” (To be Continued.) = ee