Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, March 20, 1897, Page 6

(yeleyelfal CHAPTER V—(Continued.) So, when he had opened an account at the bank with Morwen’s check, and, with the thousand pounds in notes, he asked the cashier for Miss Hillyard’s present addre: And, to his surprise, it was given him: “Care of Mr. Crabb, merchant, Bristol.” “And how long has that been her ad- dress? ‘ked he. The cashier told him; it was about three weeks before the Yorkshireman claimed to have met her on the Not- tingham road. “Much she cares for Lockmead,” bit- terly thought her disinherited cousin. “What different women there are in the world. I never grudged her her own until now. Yes; that big Yorkshireman is right, after all. There must be some- thing all wrong about a system that gives wealth and power to a Margaret Hillyard, only to misuse them both; and to a Grace Lucas, who could and would use them, only weakness and poverty. Yes; Margaret Hillyard shall hear the truth for once in her life before she goes. back to her slaves.” nd indignation sent him back that must have astonished his borrowed steed, whom he reined up at Morwen’s door just as the latter was le: ng the mill which contained the machines—idle, though for the present sound. “Morwen. ing, “fever id he, without dismount- no fever, I must leave my cases to Miss Lucas for a few days. She can prescribe beef and wine as well as I, and can see to the supplies I’ve ordered from Nottingham, thanks to you.” “Leaving Lockmead—you?” “Yes, for Bristol. I’m going to see Miss Hillyard. If she wen’t come to Lockniead, Lockmead must go to her.” Had he been of a suspicious nature he could not have failed to notice the look that started into Morwen’s eyes and then eemed to spread over his face in y cloud. Basil Hillyard going to Bristol! That would mean the discovery, at once and before da could be confused, that Miss Hillyard was dead when Basil's reversion was purchased; that he had been the victim of a gross fraud, which the courts would not allow. to stand— nay, that even if Amos Morwen could avoid the suspicion of guilty know- ledge, an error had been committed by which Basil would not be allowed to be damnified. Never for a moment had he dreamed of even the risk of such a discovery until, by able management, the success of his plot had been in- sured. F , overflowing with grati- tude and trustful of his friend, would never suspect; the news of Miss Hill- yard’s death need not have reached Lockmead for another year, and then dates and circumstances might be shuffled like a pack of cards. But the prospect of going to Bristol overthrew everything. It came upon him like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, and, for a moment, this man of resource knew not what to do. “No, no!” he almost stammered. “Go- ing to Bristol? Indeed! You can’t be spared, «loctor—you can’t, by George!” “Then you know that Miss Hillyard is there?” “Of course,” said Morwen. tainly sh here.” “But why should it be kept so dark? Is there any reason why it shouldn’t be known that Miss Hillyard.is on her way hom “Oh, no; none at all,” said Morwen, ‘bound to answer off-hand, and without knowing what to say, cept that, at all hazar he must stick to it that Miss Hillyard was alive and well. “Ah! then, th: what sent you to Bristol—to see Mi Hillyard? And what sort of a girl is this cousin of Is she as proud, and hard, and cold, as they say she is? “How do you know I went to Bris- tol?” a i Morwen, sharply. But he read po sign of doubt or distrust of him in the doctor’s eager and honest eyes. “Was that a secret? Oh, it was Polly Holmes let that out, I think. Come, out with it, Morwen. You’ve found her as bad as the people think her, and, as she’s my own kinswoman, you don’t like to say?” “Yes,” said Morwen, slowly—mental- ly setting another offense to the ac- count of Polly Holmes, and catching at a straw. “You’ve hit the buli’s-eye there. Proud — cold — hard? She’s as proud as Lucifer and as cold as ice, and as hard as the nether millstone. Her father was a scoundrel, and every drop of blood she’s got in her eomes from him. She’s her father in petti- coats, and he was a devil. ‘Lhere—the murder’s out, now. I tell you, if you go to her for help, you'll fare no worse than I. Leave the jade alone.” “Ts she handsome?” “No; she’s as ugly without as with- in.” “Then, pray for me, Morwen,” said Basil, touching his horse. “he worse the dragon the better the deed. I’m off—like St. George. If I’m not back within the week consider me devoured. Good-by.” And before Morwen could think another word he wag beyond call. It was a terrible state of things. Scheme after scheme suggested itself to Morwen, retired into the solitude of his mill, only to be dismissed as im- practicable. That Basil should go to Bristol to interview this non-existent ‘kinswoman was as certain as fate; for the doctor differed from other impuls- ive people in always acting upon his impulses, especially when they im- plied any invincible difficulty to be overcome. Morwen regretted having painted the imaginary Miss Hillyard in quite such forbidding. colors, seeing that they had only piqued this modern knight-errant into more eager action. A dragon was just the creature to at- tract Basil, as Morwen might have “Cer- ‘known. And, once in Bristol, the death of the heiress before the sale of her in- hheritance could not be kept for a day. “I wish to God that screw he’s on woule throw him and break his neck!” By R. E. Francillon. meditated the squire. “Or if only the fever would make a new burst, or—but it’s no use thinking nonsense; some- thing must be done. Why didn’t I say she had gone back to Jamaica? But, no, I couldn’t have said that, not know- ing how much he knew; and it’s too late now. If I had somebody 1 could trust? There’s Polly—no; I’ve done with her; she’s a viper and a fool! To think that I should have all Lockmead, and all Lockmead means, between my very fingers, and lose it, because a housemaid chatters and prat- tles! No, my lass; to-night sees the end of you!” He put on his hat and sought inspira- tion from the open air; and his feet led him straight to the cottage of Grace Lucas, as if she were a loadstone and they steel. He had half-expected to find Basil there. But, by good luck, he found her at home and alone. “Don’t think I have come for my an- swer yet,’ ’said he. “That was to be to-morrow, and I’m a man of my word. I only want to buy your brains to-day.” “T should hardly have thought,” said Grace, that you were in want of any- thing in that line.” “Well, then, you were wrong, for I am.” He laid a bundle of notes on the table. “There, my lass,” said he, “that’s earnest money. You know what I promised you yesterday. And you understand that which I say to you now rests a secret between us two? But, of course, you will, for your own sake, seeing what you have to gain—or lose. You have heard all about Miss Hillyard?” “That wretch, who—” “Hush! That wretch, as you call her, is dead; she’s drowned at sea.” “Dead? Drowned? Well, sir, that doesn’t make her the less a wretch, I suppose? I am glad to hear it, I’m sure. But, ah! then the doctor is next heir. How glad all the people will be! It seems too good news to be true. But, oh—perhaps she has made a will?’ “No, my dear; she could not possibly make a will as to her English estates without consulting me. And, besides, she wanted some days of being twen- ty-one; and so clever a girl as you seem, knows, no doubt, that nobody can make a will before twenty-one?” “Does the doctor know?” “That his cousin is dead? No. But it dosn't matter. It’s not worth your while to make love to him.” “Indeed? I should have thought, considering as he is now so rich, that is it very much worth my while.” “I believe you are a devil!” he ex- claimed, roughly. ‘No; since you un- derstand money so well, don’t make any mistake there. I am Miss Hill- yard’s heir. I bought Lockmead be- tore she died.” “Ah! for five thousand pounds? . * Oh, Squire Morwen, you really did not need to come for brains to me!” Morwen paused. The girl was all too quick—her guesses seemed to be diving into all the corners of his mind, and to run faster than his words. Well, even if she guessed everything, what did it matter? He would know how to keep her loyal; and, if he failed in that, who would credit such a monstrous story as that he had made a Luddite agent the confidante of a fraud? After all, bold- ness is but prudence in its sublime de- gree. “Very well—I want you to be Miss Hillyard,” said he. “I Miss Hillyard? Now, that I do not understand.” “Yes. That ruined, crack-brained spendthrift, Doctor Hillyard, believes Miss Hillyard to be in Bristol, and alive; and it is of consequence that he should not know, for the present, just when she was drowned. You will start forthwith for Bristol, posting all the way. He will travel by coach, and L will take care that you beat him by a day. You will put up at the White Lion, in the name of Miss Hillyard. As soon as you are there you will take passage in the first West Indiaman that is about to sail.” “T am to go to the West Indies?” “I said you are to take your passage; I did not say you are to sail. On the contrary, you will post back to Derby, and I will meet you there at an ad- dress I will write down; but you will leave word at the white Lion that you are gone to London; then, in a month, when he goes down again, to find that Miss Hillyard has sailed for Jamaica! Poor, poor young man!” “You will do this, then—for me?” “For you? Why, I’d do it just for the fun of the thing!” said she, with sparkling eyes—she whom poor Basil and all Lockmead loved or worship- ped, as if she was an angel from the skies. Amos Morwen drew a deep sigh— half of intense relief, half of shame, at having feared to make love to a girl who could sell herself to the devil and call it fun, “But how shall you ac- count for your absence from Lock- mead?” asked he. “Oh, my brains are good enough for that,” said Grace. “I—I’m afraid you thought me rather stupid yesterday; but then, you see, I didn’t know how rich and how clever you are.” “Give me a kiss, then,” said Mor- wen, holding out his arms. But the inconsistent creature courte- sied and drew back “One thing at a time, sir, if you please,” said she. “You forget that I’m Miss Hillyard now.” And she drew herself up in such stiff state and dignity, curling her lip and tossing her chin, that, though she made her elderly lover smile grimly at the spirit of the jest, he had to content himself with what he had gained; not altogether displeased that, ready to be won as she was, she had modesty enough left to wish to go through the form of being wooed. So, having arranged with her the de- tails of the scheme for concealing in- definitely from Basil and from all Lockmead the death of Miss Hillyard, he left, on the terms of a general un- destanding. For obvious reasons, he. did not choose to go home by the lane and the village, and so made a round that would take him by a large, neg- lected pond on the deserted grounds of the manor, into the Nottingham road. He had so much to think over, that, apart from prudence, he preferred the longer way. ¢ Suddenly, while he was skirting the pond by a weed-grown path, between the reeds and the brushwood, his med- itations were broken by a light touch on his arm and a warm breath in his ear. For a moment he thought Grace had followed him. But he was unde- ceived, and that to his rage. “So, Squire!” said Polly Holmes, in a sort of hissing whisper—* so this is what you mean by these evening walks of yours—leaving your bottle and me!” “And how dare you dog me?” ex- claimed Morwen, turning upon her fiercely. “Look here, lass—l’ve had enough of this, and I’ve had enough of you. I'll have no spy within my doors, and I shall go where I please, and do as I please. Go home, and keep to your own place, unless you want to’ be sent back to your friends before you’re a day older.” #Older, indeed! That comes well from an old fellow like you, squire, knew you’d be wanting to get rid of me, and I know why; and that’s why I chose to have the first word, and that is—I shan’t go!” “What!” “TI shan’t go. There’s too much be- tween you and I for us to part now; and, what’s more, you won’t get an- other to serve for honest love, like I’ve done, and will. So you'd better make the best of a good bargain, squire, and put up the bans.” “Are you mad, woman?” “Mad! No; ’twas you were mad, Squire Morwen, to lay your plots with your girl in a tumble-down old hut where anyone in the shed could hear by laying her ear to the lath and plas- ter and her eye to the nearest wind- hole. And I’ve read the paper that signed away Lockmead—'tis next your heart now. And I knew you went to Bristol, and I’d know wherever you went, if ’fwas to all Madam Hillyard’s Indies. And, as I’m a living woman, Squire Morwen, and as I’m an honest one, sleeps this night that Miss Hillyard’s a corpse at the bottom of the sea!” “Well?” asked Morwen, ‘hoarsely. “There’s but one thing will save you, squire,” said Polly. “Marry me in church, and send that baggage pack- ing, and I'll do your errand at the White Lion myself; and all out of love for you!” “Oh, that’s your game, is it?” asked he. He knew it was no game, but that he had to deal with a fury who would not spare him, now that he had fallen so utterly into her hands. Why should she, indeed, urged on by all the de- mons of jealousy and greed? He put his right hand to his breast, just where she had accused him of keeping the deed which gave him Lockmead. “No, marriage with an eavesdropping she- devil is the price I am to pay her for holding her tongue? ’ “If you like to put it that way, squire, yes,” said she. “And if you do, you'll find me as good as gold. But if you don’t—you'll know what'll happen then. No Lockmead, no character, no nothing; only, maybe, Nottingham jail; for you and your girl!” There was simply but one thing to be done. Amos Morwen took his right hand from his breast; something flashed, and the next moment Mary Holmes was lying dead among the reeds! e CHAPTER VI. Bought ana Sold . “No letter from Margaret—none? Oh, Uncle Jonzs!” cried Julia, turning pale, “what can it mean?” “My dear, it most assuredly means ie she has not written,” said her un- cle. “But isn’t there even a scrap of a let- ter? Not a line—not a word?” “My dear Julia, no letter means no letter. The post doesn’t carry scraps and leave the rest behind..” “Oh, dear! Uncle Jonas, there’s only one thing to be done. We must go to Lockmead our- } sely id such a thing?” “Surely, Uncle Jonas! Anyhow, you said what came to just the same. Of course, when you said she hadn’t writ- +] ten, you must have meant she was pre- vented from writing; and that meant we must go and see why. Oh, the poor darling must be ill—dying—dead! Ob, no, not dead; that can’t, and shan’t and mustn't be-’ ” “It is certainly very, very strange,” mused Uncle Jonas. “To tell the truth, my dear—only I didn’t like to tell you before---for fear you should be anxious —I wrote to Mr. Morwen, who is her steward, to ask if Miss Hillyard was at Lockmead, or where.” “And he said?—oh, don’t keep me waiting, there’s a dear!” “He said Miss Hillyard had never been to Lockmead, and that her ad- dresis is Mount Vernon. Julia, I am dreadfully afraid that I, a man of busi- ness, have been entertaining an angel —I mean an imposter—unawares.” “Uncle, sooner than think my Mar- garet not my Margaret, I would die. It is my first duty to clear her good name.. I will go and pack now. I wonder if 1 need take my pink silk? I don’t see how I could want it—but one never knows.” Pack? Bless my soul, child, what arej you going to do now?” “Bless my soul! Don’t you know that from Bristol to Lockmead isn’t much less than two hundred miles? couldn’t do it in a couple of days. And the idea of a child like you traveling all over the country alone——” Re “No, not alone, uncle. You’d never, 0! course, let me go alone; and, so! thank you for coming, too- With your clev- erness we shall know all about Mar- garet in half an hour.” “Bless my heart and soul! why, I’ve never been twenty iles from Bristol since——” “Then you will surely enjoy a run- Come, Uncle Jonas—if she’s a cheat— it’s your duty to send her to prison; if she’s ill, it’s my duty to be by her side; and yours, too, poor, friendless orphan girl! Think, dear Uncle Jonas, what you'd do if I was lost or dying all alone in a foreign land?” But the upshot of an argument be- tween these two was foregone as soon as it was begun. It was true that the merchant had the daily habits of a life to conquer, and this made him grumble heartily. But, on the other hand, he did not, in his heart, believe that the lady whom Julia adorel was an im- poster, and he did, in his same heart, the doctor will know before he! Then, as you say, dear; dread that she might have had foul Play by the road. No doubt, the palmy days of highwaymen were over; but his notions if travel were derived from the traditions of his forefathers, and the country was really in a disturbed condition, especiially in the North, so that he had some tangible cause, un- known to Julia, for real uneasiness. If the lady he had received had really been Miss Hilyard of Mount Vernon, then her own steward’s ignorance of her whereabouts was not ti be ex- plained . The first day’s journey, in which ex- citement made up for the discomfort of cramped limbs and irregular meals, and might—though it did not—have made the slave-merchant think of the hor- rors of the middle-passage, brought the travelers to Coventry. Julia began to think that the world was very large. But, on reaching Leicester, she began to think it very small; for here en- tered the coach a Capt. Lowther, who had been stationed at Bristol when the dragoons were there, about a year be- fare, and with who mshe had danced at two city balls. She remembered him perfectly—and it so happened that Captain Lowther also remembered her. So it came out that he was on his way to Nottingham,where his regiment was now stationed, though “Thank Heaven,” he said, “it won’t be for long, for we're under orders for Spain.” This made the handsome young soldier more interesting still; and the talk naturally ran on about the service, until the cap- tain told his companions, with much contempt and disgust, how all one night he had been shut up in a mill at a wretched place called Lockmead, to wait for the enemy—not French invad- ers, but a pack of starved weavers, who never came. “Gad!” said the cap- tain, “I never felt so small!” “It’s the Quakers are at the bottom of it,” said Mr. Crabb, profoundly. “Lockmead!” why that’s where we are going!” cried Julia. And thus, un- der a fire of mutual question and an- swer, the whole story of the missing heiress came to be told. Captain Lowther was interested pro- foundly. Life at Nottingham was somewhat monotonous; and this jour- ney of one very charming girl in search of another opened a view of amuse- ment such as did not occur every day until “boots and saddles” should sound for Spain. “J gather that Miss Hillyard must been reaching Lockmead just about the very night that old Justice Morwen had me down there for my sins. Gad! if she*fell in with a mob—if there real- ly was one—she might have been made uncomfortable. But, for my part, I don’t believe in that mob; I believe it was all a humbug. And if there had been, I don’t believe she’d have come to any real harm. Gad! though, did it never strike you, as the young lady is an heiress, that there might be a young man?” “Oh, no!” said Julia. “Margaret had had thousands of offers, and refused them all. Everybody in Jamaica had proposed to her, and in England there | had been no time.” “Oh, there’s always time for that,” said he. “I don’t know—when I was in Ireland it was the fashion to run away with heiresses against their will. Old what's-his-name—Morwen—looked quite capable, You take my advice. Put up at Nottingham, and before you go fur- ther find out how things stand. And pray remember that I am most devot- edly at your service—ho;se and man.” It was a grand relief for the travelers to have fallen in with a man of the world who seemed to take positive pleasure in looking after them in Not- tingham. He took them to the right inn, and even carried devotion so far las to accept their invitation to sup with them. Under his influence, Uncle Jonas grew social and Julia grew shy; and she caught herself wondering what the divine Margaret would think of this magnificent dragoon. The next morning Mr. Crabb called at every bank in Nottingham, until he found that which was honored with the account of Miss Hillyard of Lockmead. Obtaining an interview with the banker ' himself, and receiving all the respect due to his commercial standing, he learned that most decidedly nobody purporting to be Miss Hillyard had been near the place, and “We should surely have heard of such a county event as her return to her ancestral home,” said the banker. But he pooh- hooed the idea of possible imposture, or of the young lady's having been cut off in the flower of her youth by so tragical a doom. That must be some mistake, doubtless; an imposter would not have been content with gaining a few weeks’ hospitality on false pretenses; she would have played a higher game.” “Then you think,” said Mr. Crabb, left Bristol for Lockmead many weeks age, and has never either arrived or written to say why?” The banker looked grave. “And did | you say that Morwen also denies all I—I don’t know knowledge of her? she traveling what to say. Was alone?” “No; with a maid.” “Trustworthy?” “An old family servant, who had been her nurse in her cradle; as simple and devoted as there is in the world. I don’t like the look of it at all,” saia Mr. Crabb. “I don’t, indeed. What with highwaymen, and Luddites, and Quakers, Englaud isn’t a fit place for two unprotected women to travel alone. My poor niece, sir, will go out of her mind. By the way, there must be somebody else who ought to be con- cerned in this inquiry. Who is the poor young lady’s heir-at-law?” “Oh- Dr. Hillyard—parish doctor of Lockmead. Yes, he would be concerned —very much concerned, indeed. Mor- wen tells me he is as poor as Job. Take a glass of sherry, Mr. Crabb. By the way, I heard something——” He rang the bell. “Tell Curtis I want to | see him,” he said, to the messenger. who answered. “I suppose Miss Hill- yard, Mr. Crabb, did not leave Bristol unprovided with money?” “Of course not—she had plenty of money—too much, indeed.” “Then, she was no imposter, you may be sure, Oh ,Curtis—wasn’t Dr. Hill- yard, of Lockmead, over here the other day? True; he opened an account; I remember now. You _haven’t heard anything about Miss Hillyard having come to Lockmead, have you? But, of course you haven’t—it’s absurd.” “No, sir,” said the cashier, who had attended to Basil. But I shouldn’t be surprised. We cashed one of her checks only a few weeks ago.” “One of Mr. Morwen’s, you mean?” “that the real Miss Hillyard actually, “No, sir; one of her own. I'll find you the entry. Here, sir—Miss Hill- yard’s own eheck, to self or bearer, one thousand five hundred pounds. Here’s the check itself. I hope, sir, there's nothing wrong?” “I hope not, Curtis. Let me intro- duce you to Mr. Crabb of Bristol. That is Miss Hillyard’s signature, sure enough. Who cashed the check?” “T did, sir.” “Who was the bearer?” “A lady—or a female, anyway: not very young; I should know her again.” “How was the check cashed?” “In our own notes, sir.” “Kindly see if any of those notes have returned. I dare say you think I am rather a suspicious person, Mr. Crabb,” said the banker, while the cashier was gone. “But I confess 1 don’t like the look of a personal check of Miss Hillyard’s being cashed—Iook at the date—when the lady herself has never been home. Well, Curtis?’ “Well, sir. A thousand pounds’ worth have been returned.” “Can you say how?” “Of course I can, sir. Dr. Hillyard paid them in to his own new account when he called.” “AN?” “Yes, sir—all.” “Thank you, Curtis; you can go.” ‘The banker dismissed the cashier lightly. But as soon as he was gone he and Mr. Crabb gazed at one another, as if trying to find a key to this new compli- cation in the other's eyes . For the matter stood thus: Miss Hillyard had never arrived at Lock- mead; she had never been so much as heard of for weeks. But an unknown woman had cashed a check of hers dated since she left Bristol, and her cousin, who was also her heir, but otherwise unknown to her unless, per- haps, by name, had paid to his own ac- count at the bank, two-thirds of the very notes wherewith the check had been cashed a few days previously. “But I understand it,” said Julia, when her uncle returned to the inn. “It's my kind-hearted angel of a Mar- garet; she knew her cousin was as poor as Job, so the first thing she did was to make him a present of a thousand pounds. She is at Lockmead, uncle, whatever Mr. Morwen and the bank may say.” But she was not at Lockmead; for when Captain Lowther called in the evening it was with the news that he himself had spent the day in riding over to Lockmead and back, and had thus learned that not only had Miss Hillyard never arrived there, but that she was believed to be somewhere in the Indies. “T went to the great house itself,” said he. “Gad! it looked as if it wanted living in. The whole place is as God- forsaken a hole as ever I saw. And they’ve got some sort of low fever there; I should say, exceedingly low.” Certainly poor Julia’s spirits were low enough when she went to bed that night, even though it was a great thing to have such an unlooked-for friend to lean upon as this officer of dragoons. The next day a conference of three gentlemen was held in the banker's pri- vate parlor. The two elder were in fa- vor of applying to the mayor of Not- tingham, or to some other magistrate. But the younger, who had received, as he had assuredly earned, an equal amount of knowledge with the others, was of a different opinion. “We none of us know much about Miss Hillyard,” he said. “The bank only knows her as am in- visible customer; Mr. Crabb only as a few weeks’ guest; I nothing at all. But, on general grounds, when a handsome heiress, not quite twenty-one, disap- pears, although it’s always on the cards she may have been robbed and mur- dered in the good old style, I say, Cher- cher Yhomme. Failing Lockmead, try Gretna Green. And if that should be the trump card, you won't thank your- selves to have dragged the young lady’s name into a scandal before a mayor. I have another plan—for Gretna Green I believe it will be.” “How about her check and my notes?” asked the banker. “And it strikes me, sir, that, before proceeding, we ought to communicate with the steward and with the heir-at-law.” “I think not,” said Captain Lowther. “If things are as I think, the fewer who share the lady’s secret the better. We know ourselves to be gentlemen”— he glanced especially at Julia’s uncle— “put Mr .Morwen is not, and the heir- at-law may or may not be. Besides, sir, it is he who—if he did not employ a messenger to cash the check—paid himself the proceeds. Gentlemen, I need only say at present, that if this heir-at-law has let this heiress come within a hundred miles of the Tweed, and hasn’t carried her across it, he must be a fool. And, what is more, neither the heiress is at Lockmead, nor he.” “But, bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Crabb, “marriges aren’t made in that way! | Why, the cousins had never met in their lives—there hasn’t ever been time for paying proper attentions.” “Oh, yes, there has!” drawled the captain, stroking his mustache. “Say one minute for acquaintance, one for spooning, one for popping—why, it’s time enough to boil an egg, much more for making a match with a pretty girl.” The old-fashioned merchant's breath was taken away by the doctrines of the dragoon. No wonder that the French were no match for men who went to work in this style. (Mr. Crabb’s soli- tary courtship had lasted fourteen | years, and even then he had not ar- rived at the poiit of declaring his pas- sion.) But the banker was less taken aback. 2 “There is some sense in Captain Low- ther’s view,” said he. “But we want something practical. What eught to be done?” “Why, find the post-boys who drove them,” said the captain. “Of course they have been bribed to hold their tongues; but I know the rascals. A post-boy don’t consider himself paid un- til he has had money from both sides.” In short, the seareh for her lost friend became full, for Julia, of an agonizing | but fascinating charm for JulNa; nor was the captain’s devotion to her en- | H grossing interest without a considera- | j ble flavor of the dash he had recom- mended no less in the bower ‘than in ; the field. To return, however, to Basil Hillyard, who had set out on his she-dragon hunt for Bristol. He did not leave Lockmead without a visit to the arch-traitress, who had so readily, even cheerfully, sold him to made out of her mock repcatance, - zeal for the poor, her beauty, peter ning, and all the rest of her ee trade; she had tricked the heart oe one man and the soul out of ged and, from a spy and emissary of 8 disorder and crime, was in a fair way to be promoted Mistress ‘Morwen “ Lockmead, almost as son as she pleased. Yet the beautiful wretch re ceived the lover whom she was plotting to ruin as sweetly and kindly as if she were, in truth, the angel that he al ways called her in his waking dreams. re vate,” said he, “a week's journey isn't much to think of; but it’s some thing te a man to whom you have be come a part of every day. And it might be more than a week—whole days more—and who oe what may ha before I return? i vont what should happen?” said she. “The fever is passing now, and I | know what to do.” “~ wasn’t thinking of that!” cried Basil, in whom emotion was always ready at a moment’s notice to peil overt into action. “I’m thinking of you—and myself—for it’s all the same thing race, dearest, I’ve been fancying ane wondering, and hoping, until it has all grown into such a burden that I can't carry it to my journey’s end. I must say what I meant to keep until I re- turned—I love you with all my soul. I have never loved, I never shall love any woman in the world but you,. Be my wife, Grace!” % His eyes were upon her, and his whole soul was in his eyes, plain for the dullest woman on earth to read. She did not flinch from her victim, nor change color, unless it was that, while her eyes glittered and moistened, her cheeks grew just a shade more pale. “I—your wife? Do you know what you are saying?” she said,” making no answering gesture to his outstretched hand. “You—a gentleman-born, wish to marry a girl whom—whom—you de not know; whom nobody knows; who—” “Dearest,” urged Basil, “I know what I am saying so much that I only want you as you are—now; as to what I know you to be; as my good angel, and the angel of us all. So much T know what I am saying, that if your whole life, every page, were laid oper before me, I would not even take it into my hands until you were my wife, amd then I would not read it, but throw it into Lockmead pool. I know you are Mmis- erable under some secret sense of shame—as if there were ever on earth a purer or truer soul than yours! Come, dearest Grace, forget everything and bury everything, and let my wife be half as proud of herself as I shall be to have won her for my very own.” She started at last. “What! you would marry me, even if you heard that I was——” “Hush, Grace! If I heard, if it was proved, that you had ever done a wrong thing, I should not believe; if you told me so yourself I should not listen. T tell you that I want for my wife the Grace of now. What do I care for some girl of yesterday, who is dead— whom. I never knew?” “They think I am in league with the machine-breakers,” said she. “They think! What do you say?” “No.” “Then they may think what they will. Grace, my love, my darling, don’t send me away without a word.” It must be said for the girl that she sighed All-trusting and all-believing Jove, in all the glory of youth and pas- ‘sion and in the grander glory of truth, such as even she could perceive, if she could not share, was much to throw away, even for a clever woman’s ®er- tainty of becoming Lady of Lockmead, And then, conscience used to go for something, though -in these: more learned days its existence has been de- nied. So, no wonder she sighed; for a woman is a woman, be she what else she may. “Without a word?” she echoed: “Yes, without a word. Grace Lucas must not be your wife, Basil Hillyard. She is not fit for you. I could tell you why. But, for Heaven’s sake, don’t tempt me. For Heaven's sake, say no more!” He reasoned, pleaded, implored. But, at last, so much ray of conscience was. left this rustic Circe that, though she was engaged in his ruin for a stronger man’s sake; she was firm not to let him throw his heart into his ruin if that could be saved. “You can never love me!” at last he cried, having done all that man against woman can do. “No, you cannot, if you let some mad remorse come be- tween you and the salvation forever that true love means. But I love you; and no more madness shall come be- tween us two.” She had’ not, he bitterly thought, as he rode to meet the coach ,even sug- gested the cold, commonplace that her lover should turn himself into her friend. He had not dreamed of rejec- tion—his only doubts: had been of pru- dence, and they had been scattered as soon as true love breathed. Knowing nothing of her but that he loved her, he could only imagine that she was as de- termined as a nun to make a martyr of herself in expiation of some past se~ cret to the very end. But the worst of this. was that he felt that she would never give up @ self-sacrifice; the more hard the more welcome. It was as well he had a journey be- fore him; and it, may be he would not have had' the heart to make it had he spoken of love to his betrayer a day before. He reached Bristol in due course; but, somewhat unhappily for Squire Morwen’s plan, instead of in- quiring at the White Lion, went straight to the address he had received at the bank—that of Mr. Crabb—the very man of all others who would haye given him the very tidings that Mor- wen wished to conceal. But Providence—or something else— favored the bela. Mr. Crabb and his family were away from home; and, as to Miss Hillyard, she had left, Briste’ Tong an@ long ago. So that, instead o! discovering that Miss Hillyard was dead, he had it, on good authority, that she was alive; and since he had, of course, no suspicion of her @eath, only accident eould betray it to him, even in Bristol; for he had no occasion to call . on Bates Brothers, and the loss of the Queen Charlotte was getting an old story now. (To be Continued.) StL AUNE UTA ey Turned Up. “Anything turned up yet?” asked the friend. “Nothing but the noses of everybody Amos Morwen for her own gain. A/ I tackle,” said the m: ‘he look good thing, indeed, had the adventuress | ing for a place Cincinnati Kuquines.