Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, February 27, 1897, Page 6

«= GREAT HEIRESS By R. E. Francillon. @ DEAE Eee CHAPTER I. A Bad Start. Miss Hillyard was on the way home to Lockmead Manor, after an absence in Jamaica of fifteen years. The death of her father had made her a great heiress; she was now to queen it over hundreds of workmen in the mills that came to her by inherit- ance. She had ruled in Jamaica over many negroes, and was used to governing, but in the homeland it would be differ- ent; her people should now work, not for the whip but for honest good will. She had not written to her invaluable steward, Amos Morwen, either of her departure from Jamaica or her arrival in England. She wanted to surprise everyone, even as She had surprised no less than forty-nine lovers by refusing them. So, accompanied only by her maid, Susan Croft, she set out in a chaise for mily manor. s Hillyard had purposely chosen e by night at Lockmead. Her plan was to put up, all unknown, at the Unicorn, to rise with the sun, to take a e the housekeeper out of her wits ding breakfast at the manor. d-twenty one foresees fun in a surprise, and it takes just nineteen years more to learn that such things s come to a bad end. A philoso- pher, homeward-bound, writes before- hand to announce the day, hour, min- ute and manner of his home-coming, and then waits for an answer; he gives ample time to hide away all the skele- tons, and for everybody to be on par- ade. Meantime, while Susan_ slept deeper and deeper, Miss Hillyard grew wider and wider awake, and saw Lock- mead spire, though-still invisible, as plainly as if she were in a dream. The chaise from Derby rolled along roads, and Miss Hillyard was as happy as a girl who had nobody to love ex- cept herself can be, when, in less time than I can think the words, the car- riage was brought up with a sharp jolt, and Miss Hillyard was thrown vi- olently forward. r, after the shock, did the chaise recover itself and go on. “Susan- Susan!” eried Miss Hillyard. “I see ‘em,’ muttered Susan, be- tween a snort and a gulp; “I see ’em all as plain as I see you.” “Wake up! Something has happened to the chaise. Look out and ask——” “Lord, miss! and so there have, to be sure! Are we on our heads or our heels? Are you hurt, miss? Well, to be sure!” “Not a bit; but——” “Bless and save us, Miss Hillyard!” cried Susan, wide awake now. “The chaise is all afire-” And truly, as she spoke, a flare filled the carriage with a momentary light, and Miss Hillyard, attempting to lean out of the window, was met by a face half-covered with crape, while a rough, heavy hand was laid upon her arm. “Great heaven—highwaymen!” cried she. “Halloo, mates!” bellowed a rough volce beyond; “the ladies takes ussen for thieves!” “No, ma'am,” came from behind the crape, “we ben’t no thieves—we be the men, let thembe thieves as sides of the road proclaimed numbers —perhaps a crowd, and robbers do not work in crowds. But that rendered the attack the more alarming, inasmuch as its nature was beyond guessing. Su- n sat bolt upright, beholding her mis- with open mouth and eyes. Had Hillyard not been there Susan would have fainted. Miss Hillyard was afraid; but she was far too great a lady to show her fear, for she had learned how to be imperious from her hundreds of black slaves. “Drive on!” she catled to the postil- ions, in as firm and clear a voice as if she had been brave, instead of trem- bli all over. But the chaise did not move. “None of that, ma’am!” said the masked fellow at the window. “There’s four men at the horses’ heads, and your jockey dursn’t use whip or spur. You be warned by me. You're bound for Lockmead. And so be we. And there’s none of us but goes into Lock- mead this night, tramp or drive. ‘This here’s a Leicester chay, I know. You turn their h and sleep at Notting- ham, and—you'll come to no harm.” “Unless you want to rob me— ryt ke us for a gang o’ d— mill- ’ roared out another voice from above the murmur, with an oath, “that you call us thieves?” “Maybe she'll be one o’ their wives,” shouted a third, “and ducking’s too good for her.” “Least how, none gets to Lockmead to-night that’s likely to carry tales. We can’t stop to duck she-folk,” continued the man at the window, “and we're not going to take purses—no, not if we was hungrier than we be. So, you tum back, my lady, if you don’t want your horses to be shot and your chay turned wheels topmost in the road.” “I don’t know who you are, or what you want, or what you mean,” said she, in as clear a voice as before, “nor do I care. I shall not turn back—1, on my own land. I shall go where I will. I am Miss Hillyard of Lockmead Man- or; and I will haye you flogged at the cart’s tail.” Scarcely were the words past her lips when a hooting and groaning went up from the crowd, enough to scare the stoutest heart in the world. Even Su- san uttered a gasping scream. sfiss Hillyard discovered that she had not to deal with turbulent negroes, whom her name and her lofty bearing would bring to their knees. She felt like a child who has dropped a match and set fire to a barn, “Hold your row, mates-” cried an- other voice high above the tumult—a rough voice like the rest, but less rus- tic and in the tone of a voice used to! command, “and let me by. * * So, you are Miss Hillyard of Lockmead, eh? I can’t see your face, young wo- man—nor do I wish; and if I was to fill your’coach with torchlight—and that is the only light left us but the sun’s and the moon’s—you wouldn’t dare lift up your face to look at these poor men. Yes, ‘tis you, and the likes of you that can ride in your coaches and wallow in the fat of the land, and make the poor man pay, and then take the last crust out of his children’s mouths with your d—d infernal macnines. And now you've come back—what for? To see what you've made Lockmead? or to squeeze out still anothed penny? God help the place, but you’ve done there. There’s none left to squeeze.” The poor girl could only sit silent and aghast. The man’s earnestness ap- palled her, though not one single word could she comprehend. The howls and groans were over. This man was the orator of the company, and there was something in his voice, and something more undefinable still, that told why. “For all that are in distress I am very sorry,” faltered she. “It’s too late for that, my girl,” said the man. “Sorrow won’t send us back, nor help you on. Sorrow won't wiu these men’s bellies, nor their wives’ nor their children’s nor cost you a tear. I'm thanking God he sent you our) way. He’s not so good to us in com- mon. There’s been many black, grind- ing tyrants in these parts, but the Hill- yards, that was once weavers them-| selves, are the blackest of them all. | “Tis the old tale—there’s no such cruel | grinding tyrants as the rich that once) was poor. Isn’t it they that bred the} machines?” “Amos Morwen!” cried a voice from the crowd, amidst another howl. “No! Blame the master or the mis- tress, not the man. Here’s Jezebel her- self!” “Bring a torch, sir,” said Miss Hill- yard, haughtily, “that you may see if I am afraid to look you in the face— yes, and all. Let me see my people of Lockmead—my home, where I was born!” “You'll see them soon enough, my lass—and I don’t think you'll like what you see. But I’m not going to have you look hard on these poor fellows, so that you may swear away their lives. You shall see another sort of torch than we've got here before you're older by twko hours. When you’ve got back to Nottingham way as far as Colash hill, have the coach heft round, and you'll see a torch—a blaze!” “A blaze?” . “Aye, one to warm you, my lass, and all the country side. ’Twill be Hill- yard’s mill.” _“‘Susan,” said Miss Hillyard, with a sigh, “I think’ we will—sleep at Not- tingham. This isn’t coming home.” With a shout that was at once a groan for the machine-monger and a cheer of scorn for the coward, the horses’ heads were turned, the postilion picked up from behind the hedge and lashed and maddened into a gallop, and the poor heroine who had dared the French cruisers and the dangers of the deep was sent flying back the way she came, with her dreams dispelled. CHAPTER II. Doctor Quixote. Late one moonless evening in early au‘umn Amos Morwen and his friend Basil Hillyard were drinking port and chatting in the parlor of the bachelor house inhabited by the former, which, barring the Manor, was the best in all Lockmead, and the most comfortable, bar none. As these two men, one excepted, are the principals among the persons of this drama, they must be described to the extent of their due—a task ren- dered the easier for their present si- lence, and for the complete knowledge that all Lockmead had of both of them, Basil Hillyard, whose surname sug- gests kinship with a certain brave- spoken but deplorably timid young la- dy, looked, beyond the utmost stretch of suspicion, a gentleman from head to foot—and by gentleman, I mean the best species of the genus man. As to his features and complexion, he was neither distinctly plain nor handsome, dark nor fair; but, if the world were divided into two classes in | each respect he would have been placed just beyond the line in the fair and handsome side. However, what or- dinary human creature, manor wo- man cares for a man’s features, so long as they are passable? Enough that his hair was brown and strong, his eyes gray and clear, his nose straight and honestly broad, his mouth manfully grave, and his chin pro- nounced and firm, while his color, healthy and clear, erred only in being overpale. With the body of an ath- lete in perfect training he combined the coloring and expression of a stu- dent—an unlikely combination to meet with at Lockmead, where the few persons of a class higher than farmers and weavers drank much, worked little and thought not at all. Moreover, the little town afforded no field for any person se eccentric as to read or think, or in any respect to live a life of his own. But the best part of this Basil Hillyard was the signs of heart which but few of the masks which we call faces condescend to re- veal. Of affectation there was not a shadow of a sign; the outlook was’ frank, though by no means genial. None would choose Basil Hillyard for a boon companion; but the blindest could tell at a glance that when na- ture turned bim out she stamped him —Friend. I have already called Amos Morwen his friend, and, therefore, need not add that the two men were as opposite in appearance as the equator and the pole. Amos Morwen was not enly. a noto- riously-excellent, but in every respect a remarkable man. He had now, at forty-four years old, the air of a pros- perous and superior sort of farmer who mixed with the country gentle- men, or of a couatry gentleman of an agricultural turn,. Appearances were true as far as they went, for he had a farm of his own, and had the letting of all the Lockmead estates, so that he was a sort of master-farmer. More- over,’ by reason of the absence of Squire Hillyard, of the age of a plural- ist vicar in residence at Oxford, and of the paucity of near neighbors, it had been found advisable to make Amos Morwen, who was virtually Squire of Lockmead, a magistrate for the coun- ty; and he took the lead at the petty sessions of the district, having been ; articled to the law at Mansfield, and having practiced there as an attorney during a few of his earlier years. Be- sides, however, being something more than a mere justice or a mere farmer, he was a man of ideas and advanced enterprise. Lockmead, though lying somewhat outside the recognized circle of the in- dustry, was a township of cloth-finish- ers as well asof weavers. But its prestige in this matter belonged to the past; the place had been decaying for years, and its rude and primitive me- chanics had fallen behind the times. The machine still in use at Lockmead, and, indeed, at many districts in the West Riding itself, was a barbaric in- strument, worked entirely by man- power, slow, inefficient, and requifing a vast amount of unskilled labor, poor- ly paid. These things, indeed, kept half the inhabitants of Lockmead off the parish until they fell ill or grew ‘old; but they also kept hands out of the fields, and the whole place at a point barely above starvation. Added to this, clothes, food, and all the neces- saries of life were atewar-prices; and there was not even a Lady Bountiful to try to scare the wolf away with her fan. And yet Amos Morwen, who was re- sponsible to the Hillyard family for the condition of things, saw no earthly reason why Lockmead should not be made the germ of a second Leeds. He set out on a journey to the North; and. when he returned it was in company with a gentleman from Yorkshire, who, in the course of a few months, had built for Mr. Morwen a cloth mill, with frames and finishing machines that appeared to do all the work of themselves. Nor did Mr. Morwen stick at cloth; he set up newly-invent- ed and wonderful looms that made the hereditary weavers stare. He also called a meeting and made a speech. “To improve a trade is to extend a trade,’ said he. “The cheaper you turn out goods the more you increase the demand; and the more goods are de- manded the more must be supplied and made. These new machines will require greater skill, and skilled labor means higher wages; and the stubborn fools that won’t learn and change with the times are sadly wanted in the fields. This is a great day for Lock- mead, say I, and for every man, wo- man and child it belongs to. Better wages—more worki—a share for me and you in the welfare of us all.” To-day truths so obvious would be greeted with a+ ringing cheer. But Amos Morwen was not only introduc- ing new machines, but was speaking newly-discovered truths; and truth is a tree that takes long to grow. There was no opposition, because a new idea cannot be taken in all at once, even by the cleverest of us all. What so re- spectable a gentleman as Justice Mor- wen said was likely to be right enough; but his words, nevertheless, fell upon stony soil. They meant change; and even the wisest mistrust sudden change. 5 Said Amos Morwen, after full three minutes’ thought: “Then, I tell you, Hillyard, you’ve got hold of a mar’s nest. The people may be fools, but they’re not con- founded fools.” ‘the agent's lan- guage must be refined a little, for the best Christians swore a good deal in those days without feeling any the worse, and perhaps without being any the worse, for their habit blew off a good deal of ill-nature, and they thought it no harm. “So you think, Morwen,” said young Hillyard, gravely. “But if there’s such a thing as a mare’s nest, there’s also such a thing as a stone wall. If I’ve found one, take care you don’t run your head against the other.” “Oh, my head’s pretty hard. 1 ought to know Lockmead by this time—arter twenty years. Nobody knows the place better than I.” “Nobody—except one.” “He must be a sharp customer, that. What's his name?” “Basil Hillyard.” “You. my lad? Why, I was agent here when you weren't ten years old. Come; you know your business best, but I know mine. The bottle you.” a The younger man obeyed, but added: “Upon my soul, Morwer, it goes against the grain to be drinking wine like this, when every drop I waste on myself would be life and health to some poor soul.’ “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll send you a dozen for your patients—not this wine, though; they like something thick, and sweet and black, and strong. There’s only three men in the parish fit to drink this—you, I ‘and the vicar; and he’s never here.” “And all the better. We don’t want Greek, we want beef. Morwen, upon my soul, I believe you and I, and the farmers and the miller, and maybe two or three more, are the only people in the parish who can remember what beef, aye, or mutton, means. And here we sit and—gorge” “Hey, lad! are you turned dema- gogue? That won't do!” “J don’t know. But it seems to me, Morwen, that everybody’s deaf and blind—but me. It’s all very well to say, you know the people. You em- ploy them, of course; you collect their rent; you sit in judgment on them. You represent an absentee landlord or landlady, and you have to make good his bad name or hers. But I—I live among them; I hear their complaints and their sorrows; you see their work; I see the want of it; you see the health; I see the sickness; you see the crimes; I see the misery that makes crime—” “And the ignorance, thrift—come, out with it all, yard!” “And the ignorance and the unthrift, as you say; yes, I see it all.” “Bah! of course, the doctor sees the black side of things. Doctors needs -must; what else should they see? If they were all dukes and duchesses, it bottle’s with you.” “There isn’t a weaver'’s or,a crop- per’s hut I haven’t been into, over and over again; I have gone, sent for or no. And I tell you, Morwen, that these poor, ignorant, thriftless fellow-men and women of ours look upon your ma- chines as the devil’s engines for tak- and the un- Hill- with” ‘ing the Bread out of their mouths, and curse the name of Hillyard, which, by bad luck, is my own, every day of their lives. And, upon my soul, Mor- wen, though I tell them they’re all wrong, I can’t preach with my heart— for, if their reasoning’s false, their misery’s true.” “Nonsense! To improve a trade is to extend a trade. The cheaper you ; turn out goods the more you increase the demand, and the more goods are demanded——” “That's not how orators speak to the people, Morwen,” interrupted the young surgeon, folding his arms on | the table and leaning forward, eager- ly. “They leave out the reason and put in the blood—that’s their way. 1 hear things from the women, mostly— but, sometimes from the men. Only | this morning there was a stranger in at Adam Croft's, who strolled out as soon as I went in; but he’d left some- thing behind. Croft’s a cropper, with no more logic in him than a hungry hound. But ‘I put this to that and that to tother, sir,’ he says to me. ‘Talk of starvation—'tis all along 0’ them danged new frames to Hillyard’s mill. Afore they come there was work and wages for all, though the times might be a bittish hard. Since they come, there’s work for none and wage for none; naught to bite and naught to bite wi’, though times is harder far. Dang and smash them frarres says I, and burn the’—epithet—mill? So said Adam Croft. And when I began: ‘Nay, my good fellow, to improve # trade is to extend a trade——” “We Hillyards are answerable to these people, Morwen, for their bodies and their souls. If my grandfather had not made the will which disinher- its me, all these lands and all this wealth would be mine, as you know. If things were as they ought to be, I shouldn’t be here—I’d be out in the world fighting my way. But for some fifteen years Lockmead kas been neg- lected by a scoundrel, and is now in the hands of a foreign girl with an state of her own. We've divided mat- ters, you see. They receive the rents, and don’t do the duties. So I, by birth the head of the house, must do the du- ties as well as I can.” “Bless us alive, man, you speak like some fellow in a play. Duties? Why. I do them. 1 collect the revenues— manage the farms—improve the estate —act at petty sessions——” “And you’re too busy to teach the children, and persuade the womeu, and make friends with the men. You are a first-rate steward, Morwen, and I thank you, in my lady-cousin’s name. But there are things no agent can do; and, since she can’t do them, I must, you see. Noblesse oblige, as they say abroad. Amos Morwen gazed at him with ais dull eyes. “Pass the bottle, my lad,’ he said, at last. “Your’re too high for me. But your’re young. Wait till you come to forty years.” Basil colored, for to be called young by one’s elder is a terrible charge— it is as bad as when our youngsters call us old. What creature in his dot- age first got it established that wis- dom grows with years? Perhaps, be- cause I ought to—a very different thing. “Listen and think, Morwen,” said he. “There would be nobody to look after these people if I were to go—not a soul. Miss Hillyard has to flog her slaves, the vicar has to amend his Greek play, the curate is an ass, and you have no time. I represent the Hill- yards of Lockmead, penniless as I am; and I represent, too, a man’s duties to men. Who would care for these poor people—who would teach them at the school? You would say yourself that thriftless ignorance is at the bottom of it all. Who would put out a finger to lessen it if the head of the Hill- yards were to go? I dread what I foresee; the people’s misery is a giant, and I no giant-killer; but I must do what I can, and starve with them, if so it must be. So, don’t tempt me, Morwen. I’m tempted every day, God knows. Write me out a check for fifty pounds to-night, and leave me to spend it as I please.” “Fifty pounds- No, my boy. No good to try to empty the sea with a slop-pail. You'd relieve a few bad cases, and then they, and all the weav- and turn hungrier than ever, just to be relieved again. I offer high wages for skilled labor, fair wages (not to prejudice the farmers on the land.) 'hat’s true charity, Hillyard. The other thing's to encourage be; ry and imposture and blackmail. No work, no wages. That’s my principle, and it I was to touch them to the tune of fifty farthings, down they’d come with a run.” “T ask no man to change his princi- ples,” said Basil, a little coldly. “lor I can’t change my own. But when 1 talked of General Lud being in Lock- mead, I spoke not without book. Are you prepared?” “yes, my lad, I am. The first real signs I see of a chance of frame-break- ing, I shall do what they did at Mars- den—I shall send to Nottingham for a troop of dragoons. So, when his gen- eralship arrives, I shall whip out the riot act, with the red-ccats behind me; and then, if the rascals don’t scatter of themselves, draw swords, charge- And there'll be an end of Gen. Lud in Lockmead, my lad—dead before he was born.” : No question on earth was more likely to breed a quarrel. Basil, who was quick-tempered, who had drunk not far short of a quarter as much as Amos, and who was unused to any- thing better than the Unicorn’s small- est alé pushed back his chair and sprang to his feet. But, before he could answer, the parlor door was opened by a servant girl, a trifle too handsome to be suitable for a bache- lor’s menage. “A young person, sir,” said she, with a toss of her head and a shake of her curls, “I’m wanted?” asked Basil—who, for that matter, was always being wanted, night and day, for, since he never asked for a fee, his practice had grown unmanageably large. “No—tis for the master,” said the maid. “One of them new hands, I suppose.” “What's her business, Polly?” asked Amos Morwen. “Everybody knows I can’t be troubled now.” “She wouldn’t say,” said Polly, “not she- She only said she must see Mr. Morwen’s own self. Of course, I said you couldn’t see nobody this time of night; but she only answered like her impertinence, and weenldns go. What a pass things is coming to-” “All right, Polly—all right,” said s ers in Lockmead, would take the hint, |, The judge of assizes will do the rest. Amos Morwen. “It's against my principles to do business after business hours. Tell her to call to-morrow at 9. o'clock, sharp, at the mill.” ° “As if I didn’t tell her that,” said Polly, “twenty times? But she would not budge—not her. “P’raps to-mor- row,’ she says, ‘there'll be no mill to | call.’ Drunk or crazy—that’s my | thought o’ she.” “Then she wants the doctor, Polly,” said Basil, with a pleasant smile—he could smile splendidly, for all he was So grave. “I'll see her. I know all the | girls in Lockmead, you know. I dare say she’s a friend of mine.” Polly lowered her chin and smiled back at Basil. Then she led the way into the passage, where he found a young woman standing just within the closed door. “There, Dr. Hillyard,” said Polly, “that’s her.” Science bowed to beauty. “You wish to see Mr. Morwen?” asked he. “Yes—yes—are you Mr. Morwe “But, no. Iam not Mr. Morwen. He is—h’m—engaged; but I dare say I shall do as well.” “Oh, sir you must do as well; for in- deed there is not a moment to lose!” “What is it? But you have been running—pray sit down. “No—I will stand. Will you kindly ask the maid there to—go?” “Polly,” said Basil “this young wo- man wants to speak with me alone. People often do, you know. ‘Yell Mr. Morwen that I’m acting for him, and sha’n’t be long.” “Oh, where I’m not wanted.I don't | want to be!” said Polly, becoming all | chin and backbone. “But the way to | deafen my ears aint by stopping ’em, and fine feathers make fine birds, and the best of men’s the easiest fooled,” And off she swept to tell her master what she pleased. “Now, my girl,” said Basil, “you may speak freely. You are not a| Lockmead girl? I should know you else, and you would know me.” “Yes—no; never mind now. They are coming to burn Hillyard’s mill!” “Thank God you did not see Mor- wen!” he» exclaimed. “Quick—don’t try to tell your story—answer my ques- tions in single words. Who are com- ing?” *“T don’t know. They”— “T know. Lockmead men?” “Yes—all, perhaps, but one.” “Just so. And he'll be Yorkshire. How do you know this?” “I was coming along Nottingham road. I heard them talking—making speeches”—— “Poor, miserable, misguided fools— they can’t even act without words, like sensible men! How many?” 1 should think—perhaps more.” “You’re a clever girl—you haven't once said, ‘I don’t know.’ Armed?’ “Hatchets and guns; and their faces in crape”’— “How long ago?” “As long as it would take a woman to go four miles at unmost speed. Am I too late?” “T trust in heaven, no. You are a mill—but above all we must save these mill—but above all we must save miserable. misguided men, Arson— machine breaking Morwen will hang them all; and it’s but just he should, for better injustice than broken law— but oh, my people, mystarving poor- Let me think; God will give me timg.” The girl, whose voice, soft and clear, still lingered in his ears, spoke not a word while Basil Hillyard discarded plan after plan. “Every able-bodied cropper in the place will be out to-night. ‘Uhere’ll be none of those who are left we could depend on—they’d funk or turn traitor at the first rattle of the gates. There’s none to defend mill and house but Morwen and the foreman and me; the | farmers would come, but there’s no sixty or a hundred, against three men | and a few maids. We must altar the odds, that’s clear; yes—for sixty to three, read sixty to one. It’s a despe- rate chance, but murder for us—hang- ing for the men. If I do this and fail, | we shall be no worse; the same mur- | dered, the same hung. But if I do | this, there’s the one. chance; if I don’t | there’s no chance at all. Oh, Almigh- | ty God, who hast put this thought into | my heart, give me also the words to | speak, that I may save the poor from Amen- Can you keep a secret, my sked he. she said. “Then not one word more. For I am going to trust you; because L knew you have brains, and because I believe you braye—and that, not ask- ing whence you came, or why you are here. I am going to meet these men, and you must come too. If I tell Mr. Morwen—I_ know him—be will bar gates and bolt windows, and make a brave fight of it’ until he is a dead dead man; and. they will have three murders on their souls, and we, per- haps twenty on ours; for I swear it is murder to shoot down poor devils whom we have starved into despair. You will come with me; but you need have no shadow of fear. I shall place you out of sight and danger. I shall not need you, if all goes well. But if you hear me cry ‘Back-’—I will | ery it twice—spread your wings and fly; force your way into the house; tell Morwen or tell Polly what you have toid me. If he chooses to fight then, he'll be no worse off than now. You will come, and you understand?” “I will come; and I understand.” It was as if she had echoed his thoughts as well as his words, so firm was her voice and so solemn her tone. They had already left the house which adjoined and shared the peril of the threatened mill, and were presently in the darkness of the Nottingham. road. Here Dr. Hillyard, to husband his companion’s strength, offered his arm, on which she laid her hand lightly. “You are not afraid?” he asked. “You | have no cause.” “No,” she almost whispered. “That’s right. But it’s strange you found your way straight to the mill, | through the darkness and alone.” |'Oh, no, sir. I know the way.” “But that’s stranger, still. You're not a Lockmead girl. Iv’e known every known every man, woman and child in Lockmead over five years.” “Only five years? Ah, sir, then that’s why you wouldn’t know me,” she said, with a sigh. “Then you are a Lockmead girl?” She was silent. “Never mind,” said he. Girls had disappeared trom Lock- mead without his knowledge, and two had returned. “I may ask your name?” “Grace Lucas,” said she. Now Lucas was an old weaver’s name, once as common as Croft, but it had clean died out long before Basil's time. By-the-way, though, he remem- breed a by-word in these parts: “A ‘he knew nothing, 1 the moment, because he s the girl himself; for, like a wise man, Tee ae that no more. | strange that a Lockmead girl, of whom ht, as it were, from feorimtie nick of time, to give this warning. * But, suddenly she pierre =a is your Di ? pe veer ori eda he hark! and see!” Her voice attacked his doubts; . heavy, muffied tramp, and the ihe glow of smoking torches swept them ay. ane must be quick now,” he whis- pered; “there is no time to lose. ug you wait here, under the shadow the hedge; don’t come nearer a single step, whateyer happens; only suie you hear me call, “Back—back! ly jike a bird. * * * Here, give Mr. Morwen this pencilled note, so that he may judge how to act, for I shall have failed. I trust you, Grace Lucas, with men’s lives!” Basil Hillyard believed in trusting people; and, though deceived at least once in ten times, he kept up this rule by reason of the other nine. Most peo ple judge the nine by one, and so man- ufacture more rogues than are born. “Yes,” was all she whispered, van- ishing into shade. Meanwhile Miss Mary Holmes, other- wise known as Squire Morwen’s Polly, stalked into the parlor, where her mas- ter was engaged iu buzzing the bottle. “Squire,” said she, “you've bad enough of that stuff. There's rigs to- night. Doctor’s gone off with that girl, that’s more fit to call a baggage, and as plain as she’s imperent and as. imper- ent as she’s plain.” 2 “Well, well, Polly. Young men will be young men. Good wine's wasted on a man till he’s outgrown the girls. You were qute right, Polly, not to let her in. I can’t be bothered, at my time of life—life with—baggages; plain.” “She said, squire—” ss “Oh, never mind what she said. Yes, I do believe I’ve had enough. I'll turn in, Polly, you can go.’ ’ 4 “Yes, squire. Only I thought you might like to know what the girl did say—that’s all.” “Well, squire, if ’tis naught to you | ‘tis naught to me; so, I'll just say good- ” by. “What the devil do you mean by good-by? Good-night, I suppose you mean?” “No, squire. What I says I means, and what I means I says and I sticks oby. Good-night, there!” “ never try to understand a woman, Polly. It’s never worth while.” “Quite right not to try what you can’t, squire, being but a man. I’m going to sleep at my aunt’s to-night, where I’ll take my things, too. And 1 bids good-by now, because you might ‘be a cinder to-morrow, and ‘twill be too late then.” “Very well, my lass. I suppose you have been listening to the doctor’s stuff behind the door. Quite right to look after yourself. Yes, Polly, you may go —to the parish—and then don’t come sponging on me. I can get a girl at half your wages these hard times.” “No, Amos Morwen! you'll never get another girl, for you're going to be burnt alive this night, house, mill and all.” “Oh, that’s what the baggage told | the doctor, eh?” Miss Holmes stared. She had meant to make a grand coup, and had failed. Her mastér had either been imbibing more courage than was prudent, or there must be something in old port to | keep a man curiously cool. “Polly,” he said, presently, with a chuckle, “I do like to make a woman look like a fool, especially you, because i t done every day. If the baggage did say that to the doctor, it does look a trifle odd at first sight that the doc- tor didn’t pass the word on to me. I do not suppose, my dear, that the bag- gage brought my dear young friend, Hillyard, a message to go out and take the lead. Nor do I suppose he’s done what you only threatened, namely, sneak out of harm’s way. He never | does anything like anybody else, that’s | all; and I’m glad he’s gone, whatever’s | the reason why. Whatever happens to-night, we don’t want women, and | We don’t want fanatical fools. If L wanted warning—I! I’ve known what | was going to be done to-night for ten days. I’ve not told the doctor, because he’d have warned the fox not to face the hounds; I’ve not told you, my lady, because your tongue’s your master. And, since that’s so, out of this room you don’t budge before morning. Xour | aunt, indeed! Why, your uncle, Adam Croft, is in the plot; and I mean him for the gallows—him and twenty more!” Oh, squire!” “Yes—oh! This parish must be cleaned of vermin and weeds. 1 know you, Polly, and you're a clever girl, and I think you’ve got the length of my foot; and it amuses me to watch your tricks and your airs. Well, you'll know me to-night better than you ever did before. And you'll like me better, into the bargain. Not that I care for that ,but you care. * * * Halloo! open the window,—quick! Here they come!” “Oh, sir,” whined Polly, cowed, “is it them, to burn the mill? Oh, Lord! I'll scream; somebody might hear.” “Open the window and your ears and hold you clattering tongue—if you can. Do frame-breaker# come on horseback, eh? Do their pitchforks and hedge- poles. make a jingle like bells? Do they——” 5 “Halt!” sounded sharp and short, not more than a few yards from the mill. Polly could hear it all, though it was horses, and the faint click of hoofs pawing the hard road. [a “Sojers!” exclaimed she. “The dragoons—yes, to the very min- ute they were due. No time for warn- ings now. The trap is ready; the rats will swarm in! Another boitl2 of this old port,—quick. ‘Capt. Lowther de- pide: it; so tks Ty “Sojers!” sighed Polly, “ tain, and all!”. She eae pening but not until she had run into her own room, scrambled on her silk gown and her smartest cap, tossed on her red coral necklace, and serubbed her plump cheeks til they shone and glowed. “The trap is set,” mused Amos Mor- wen. “And now for the rats,” said be. (To be Continued.)