Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, March 27, 1897, Page 2

CHAPTER V1 —(Continued.) Indeed, what seems unfortunate. turned out to be singularly fortunate for Amos Morwen, seeing that, when Basil called at the White Lion, by some or, emps or other, no Miss Hillyard had yet arrived at the inn. Even the boldest plans must depend, in some measure upon accidents—eyen Amos Morwen had to reckon upon the chances that his confederate might meet with unavoidable accidents or delays upon the road. But even mischances will turn to the advantage of a really lucky and so in this case it proved. Had gone to the White Lion in the first place, and found no Miss Hill- yard,, inquiries might have betrayed her death to her he! having gone just where he might have learned of her death, he had only heard of her being alive. And the combination of appar- ently unconnected circumstances lead- ing to’such a result proved that Amos Morwen was even as lucky as he was bold. sre was no use in waiting indefi- the White Lion for a capri- oung lady, who might, after all, So, ing the whims and vagi longing to return to where his heart, as he felt, had received its death-blow, so s though it could never cease to od and right, it could never love an more, he returned homeward— y yet impatiently. eed I where he went first when, tired of his long and fruitless journey, he once more saw Lockmead spire? Need I tell where the moth flies when i light in the room? And, Hi, e Lucas was his sister in and, though love must be silent, there would be much to tell. His heart beat fast, for he hungered for a sight for those seeming honest, treacherous eyes again, and for the music of the voice which men, fools as they re, think can onl ybelong to an- gels—until the sirens are reaping the harvest of their song There stood the humble treasure-house—his hand was on the latch, and he saw the candle- light within. “Grace!” said he; but, whatever he was about to say was checked by the sight of two men whom he did not know. “Dr; ing for “J am Dr. Hillyard,” he answered, in much surprise, and almost, even with a shadow of doubt; for was not her denial of complicity with a great con- spiracy fresh in his ears—and who were these men at home in her home? “Then,” said the man, producing a paper, and laying his hand on Basil's “it is my painful duty to arrest ‘ge of murder, on the cor- jon!” food God! Me, of mur- asked the startled Dr. Hillyard. “Of whom, in Heaven’s name?” “Of Miss Margaret Hillyard of Lock- mead,” answered the man. sil Hillyard?” asked one, arm, CHAPTER VII. Troubled Waters. When Amos Morwen looked upon the body of poor, foolish Polly lying dead among the reeds, he was not all at ence struck by an appalling horror at what his hand had done. He had act- ed upon the universal instinct of self- preservation, It had been needful for him to get rid of her at almost any cost—how much more, when she had the means, the cause and the will to blight his name for virtue, honor and honesty, to rob him of the great estate he had won, and to turn him, when past the middle of life, adrift upon the world- The girl was a venomous fool. ‘There was no manner of good in her being alive—he had only kicked an ob- stacle out of the road. He was not a man of sentiment, and so was touched by no remorseful recollections connect- ed with the lips that he had kissed in their time, and from which the blood was now reddening the patch of swamp wherein she lay. Self-preservation comes before all—the law of nature the first ls He had no time to sentimen- talize, when, even in that secluded place, some chance trespasser on Miss Hillyard’s grounds might come face to face with him and her. Indeed, now that the dread of discovery woke upon him, there was no time to lose. He knelt down, selecting a dry spot for his knees, so that no mud mighi tell tales, and dragging her skirt over the dead girl’s head—it was bad to see her open eyes. Without any very great exertion, being a strong man, he had the cour- age (though many a coward has had as much) to carry the dead body in his arms until he reached the weir of wil- lows through which the pond relieved itself, and where the water was deep- ‘eset; and then, with considerable diffi- culty, and even some risk to himself, he dragged it to the center of the nar- row and slippery plank, half-rotten and ‘covered with green slime, that formed the top of the weir. This done, pa- tiently and laboriously, he filled the sack formed by the up-drawn skirt with heavy stones brought from the edge of the pool, and bound it firmly with a strop from the girl’s linen. Lastly, tying the ankles together and the wrists, he paused for a moment. All was silent and he was alone, save for the leap of a fish or the creak of a Tandrail. So he thrust the corpse from the weir; and down it went, head-fore- most, under the weeds of the neglected Then for a moment Amos Morwen breathed freely; for his toil had been hard and anxious, and now that it was over it was as though Polly Holmes had never been. And yet, as he slowly moved homeward, there gradually grew upon him the consciousness that he would never be to himself quite the same wholly-satisfied Amos that he hhad always been heretofore. He had cheated his friend with an easy con- science; what made him feel that to cheat this girl of nothing but her wretched, useless life was a less easy thing to have done? “I wish she hadn't stood in my way,” | pes: Was ) GREAT HEIRESS By R, E. Francillon. @ Danes eee fll thought he. “But ’twas her own fault, all. It’s what any man must have done with such a poisonous jade. There's one comfort—when she Comes to be missed, nobody will suspect me.” I think I said somewhere in this’ his- tory that the greatest of misfortunes is to haye a good character, if you wish tosin. I retract it all; toa murderer, a good character is the one thing he cannot afford to lose. He let himself into his house, brought up a good supply of his oldest port from his cellar, drank hard, and, in consequence, slept soundly. But he awoke at an unusually early hour; and yet, although some secret conscious- ness, felt even in sleep, though unreal- ized even in a dream, must have been his alarm, his mind was, for a full minute, a blank. When, however, mem- ory slowly returned, it was with a kind of sickness at the heart, and a shuddering recollection of what he had found the courage to go through yes- terday. He turned around and_ tried to sleep again till his usual hour; but as soon as he succeeded in dozing off he began to dream. So he left his bed, drew up the blind and let the sunlight stream in. “I wish I had never known her,” he muttered, half-aloud. “Well, what's done can’t be undone, and she must have died some day. It wasn’t murder; it was self-defense; when one shoots a wolf, one doesn’t ask one’s self if it’s he or she.” Satisfied for the moment by this philosophy, he proceed- ed to shave; but was suddenly seized with a strange sensation. He could not prevail upon himself to look into the mirror, lest he should see a face there that was not his own. For, argue as he would, he felt changed, and as though all the world would perceive that there was a new Amos Morwen in place of the old. He dreaded to meet his own eyes. Clearly, this was a case for brandy. So he procured himself a good dose, which steadied him, Then, conquering his nerves by an effort, and defying his own reflection, he shaved with extra closeness and care and went straight to the stable, where his man-of-all-work was busy with mops and pails. He would have to face the world, and he was even impatient to begin; and, for the first time in his life, was weary of being alone. “Joe,” said he, after speaking of dif- ferent matters, “I’m in a fix—you must find me another girl in the village who'll suit while I look around. Polly's gone.” “Why, sir,” said Joe, looking by no means broken-hearted at the news, you never mean to say that! Fancy, v, her quitting a place like this me!” “And you can find a girl for a time?” “Twenty, sir, these bad times.” “Morwen, having sketched the out- lines of a story of which he knew all the minutest particulars, on Joe’s au- thority, would be satisfactorily all over Lockmead in an hour, strolled to the mill envying the lightness of heart that inspired Joe’s whistle while clat- tering with the pails. He wished he had not sent Grace Lucas all the way to Bristol; she would have been company for some part of the day. As it was, he could only stroll to her cottage, and assure him- self, from its condition, that she had followed her instructions of last night and had really gone. His passion had been chilled a little by what had hap- pened; but it was far from dead, and he even meditated marriage, for the sake of constant company. There was not even thé doctor in the place to speak to, and so, to keep off that other self, who was dogging him like a shad- ow; and the curate had prudently closed the church during the fever pan- ic and had gone away to visit some friends. “I wonder,” Morwen groaned, at last, “when I shall see things as I used to see them, and be as I used to be? Even the chureh spire looks changed; it doesn’t look the same.” Thus remained matters for a day or two, certainly not more, when Amos Morwen, weary of solitude, and worse than weary, determined to go at once Derby to await Grace’s return. There, at all events, he would be able to throw himself into a crowd, and not have to drink alone; and when he came back the past would surely have be- come a dream, or, at any rate, a mem- ory not too vivid for a strong man with a cool head.to bear. True, it was like 1eaving his secret unguarded; but then, that was but fancy—his presence did not protect it; his absence would make no change. It was safe; and what should he fear but th enervous fancies that naturally, he told himself, grew from unbroken solitude? He did not intend to hate Lockmead, seeing all it was to be to him; and yet he felt he might come to hate it if he did not take a horiday. Of his proceedings at Derby, the less said the better; for his visits to towns and cities were not made for edifica- tion. He had certain haunts where he was always welcome, and in these he sought, and to some extent found, re- lief from his other self in stolid and systematic dissipation. And here, wait- ing in this wise for his accomplice, he might well be left, were it not for a strange piece of news that he heard one morning when returning to his inn —for he always made a point of having an address at a decent inn—where he had appointed his accomplice to meet him when her errand at Bristol was done. id “You live somewhere Mansfield way, don’t you, Mr. Morwen?” asked the landlady. “Do you know a place called Lockmead?” “Why, I live there,” said he. “Has that young lady I am expecting ——” “Arrived? No, Mr. Morwen; there's no young lady yet—but you live in Lockmead? La, how strange! Then, of course, you’ve heard tell of the mur- der——?" He did not even start, though for a moment his blood seemed to turn cold. “No, I have not heard,” said he, won- dering for a moment whether he or his pursuing double spoke the words. “La, to be sure! Our John, the post- boy, says it’s all over the place, how the Lady of the Manor has-been found. murdered in her own pond. Ah, these are terrible times- Yes, Mr. Morwen; it might have been you or me; for none can tell.” “Terrible, indeed,” said he, calmly, but dreading lest his own voice should betray him. He dared not even ask for brandy, lest even that should excite suspicion. It was curious that it should get about that the Lady of the Manor had been found drowned; but then, that is the way of stories. Only, by what devil’s chance had any corpse been found—if this rumor were true? “Then,” said he, starting all at once into life and energy, “let me have my bill at once, and a chaise. * * * I must go back. I am that lad’s stew- ard.” If he had said “I am the Prince of Wales,” the actual steward of an actual lady who had been barbarously murdered, it could not have impressed the inn with a greater sense of awe— he had become a great man; and, in so far as he had risen to the occasion and was about to throw down the gauntlet to circumstance, he was, in solemn truth, a great man, great enough to have been a great one had he pleased. It was some days after the departure of Amos Morwen from Derby that Basil Hillyard found himself arrested in the very cottage of his betrayer, on a charge that made him, for the mo- ment, imagine himself insane. He a murderer—and of his own kinswoman, whom he had never seen? “Well, I shall know all about it to- morrow,” said Basil. After the first start of astonishment—that part which always gives innocence the supposed air of guilt—was over, he could not feel that he had the faintest cause for per- sonal alarm. All the world knew him to be as incapable of crime as he knew himself to be—and of such a crime! How could the remotest suspicion of his connection with it have entered the most muddled of official minds? What- ever case there might be against him must be a curiosity in the way of blun- ders. But, even if he had felt a vest- ige of anxiety on his own account, or possessed the knowledge of a solitary circumstance that could connect him with Miss Hillyard since her arrival in England, this would have been swal- lowed up by the horror of the fate of the poor young cousin, however it had befallen. He had never known her, and disliked what little he had heard of her. But, after all, she was a girl with her whole life before her, and with no prospect but of happiness; and to think of her being murdered, with but a few weeks of her first glimpse of her native land, and on her way to her English home! Invisible as the picture was, he had to cover his eyes with his hands. Then, while sitting in the silent com- panionship of the constables, he fell to thinking of Grace, if those could be called thoughts that were in truth but wanderings of the mind. He wished she had never come to Lockmead, and, in the same mental breath, he un- wished his wish, for his heart could not go back to such mere existence as his life had been before she came. Would he see her to-morrow? Was she at this moment believing him guilty of the most hideous of sins—a sin beside which her own faults must be white as wool? “Come, sir, cheer up,” said the run- ner at last, mistaking the cause of his dejection. “Try Justice Morwen’s brandy—l’ve known a clever lawyer pull many a man out of the noose. Of course, murder must be a bad thing to have on the mind; but it’s not like forg- ery. If it was forgery now—ah, there’s not much chance of cheating Jack Ketch there. Cheer up, sir; it isn’t as bad as if ’twas forgery, you see.” “Yes,” said Basil, “I will cheer up— you make me ashamed. But one does not like to be even suspected of killing a girl, * * * It is horrible!” He shuddered, as if in the effort to speak bravely conscience rose up and for- bade. I know not whether Amos Morwen slept that night as well as he. but he, at least, slept well, in a room of the mill that served admirably for a cell, being without windows or chimney, so that escape was impossible. One of the constables shared his cell; the other, probably with assistance, kept guard outside. Basil was roused at 7, break- fasted with the jailers and was sum- moned to Justice Morwen’s justice- room at the Manor House, as the clock struck 9. Amos Morwen, together with three other county magistrates, were seated at the upper end of a long table. Mor- wen, being a lawyer, was of great in- fluence among his brother justices, and reduced their clerks to a somewhat in- significant position. The others were all from some distance, for Lockmead had no neighboring gentry. It is con- venient, if not absolutely needful, to note their names: Sir John Harkness, a famous fox-hunting squire; Archdea- con Richmond, and a young gentleman named Howe. Besides these were a number of persons unknown to the prisoner even by name—an elderly gen- tleman of rather ancient and Quaker- like fashion; a young man of about Basil’s own age, whose mustache, in those shaven days, advertised his pro- fession; an attorney from Nottingham, and various. other strangers, with as many spectators from Lockmead as it was held prudent to admit to the scene. Yet of all these, the prisoner himself was the most curious as to the nature of the charge. He glanced around, in a sort of hope of seeing Grace; but his disappointment was a relief to him. Without any delay, and almost as soon as the prisoner reached the table opposite to Amos Morwen, Mr. Lyon, an attorney from Nottingham, rose to explain the natuve of the chavge on which he applied for a committal of Basil Hillyard to Nottingham jail, there to await the next assizes, Miss Margaret Hillyard, he explained, was a young girl of great fortune, who, by a remarkable coincidence, would have been of age this very day. She was unmarried, and the attorney called spe- cial attention to the fact that the pris- oner, Basil Hillyard, was both her next of kin and her heir-at-law. She had arrived at Bristol on a certain day asa passenger on board the Amazon. On another day, also given, she had left Bristol with the express intention of at once proceeeding to her house at Lock- mead. She was traced, in company with her maid, to Derby, and thence to .@ certain point on the Nottingham road; in fact, to within a mile and a half of the house wherein their honors were now sitting. Here, however, ow- ing to one of those deplorable incidents which at the present time had found their way into their honors’ county from less wisely-ordered. districts, the young lady had been alarmed by a mob, and had returned, or rather had been turned back, in the direction of Nottingham. The postillion who drove her, to whom attached no sort of sus- picion, would inform their honors how and under what circumstances he last saw this unfortunate lady, and this was the last occasion of her being seen alive. It is true, he, the postillion, had every reason for believing that he had driven her that night as far as Mans- field; but it was under circumstances that threw grave suspicion upon the maid as either principal or accessory to the crime, if crime there was, the more especially as the maid im ques- tion had disappeared and was not to be found. There was good reason for considering, however that the maid was not the principal in the affair, as would presently appear; though no doubt it was scarcely possible that the crime—if crime there was—could have been committed without at least her knowledge and aid. Naturally, continued Mr. Lyon, the complete disappearance of Miss Hill- yard at last alarmed her friends, who set on foot energetic inquiries. Suc- ceeded at last in tracing the unfortun- ate young lady to the spot where she was last seen by the postillion, and, having good cause to suspect foul play, they examined the surrounding coun- try, and at last obtained authority from his Honor, Mr. Howe, in the ab- sence of his Honor, Mr. Morwen, then away from home, to let the water out of Lockmead ool. The theory of the Crown, therefore, was at present, this—that the unfort unate young lady had been induced by her maid to leave the carriage at some point on the Nottingham road. ‘That somebody (not her maid) having a knowledge of her person, had attacked her, and after a severe struggle (as was surmised from circumstances that will presently appear) had dispatched her with a pistol, and then, to conceal the crime, had disposed of the corpse in Lockmead Pool. He would return presently to the presumable connection of the maid with the affair. She could not be the principal murderer—she, at apy rate, never left the post chaise, and could not have dragged the corpse to the pool. It was the principal mur- derer with whom he was now con- serned. Dr. Hillyard, he would inform their honors, was a man of unusual habits and character. Born a gentleman, and a member of a great landed family, he lived entirely among the poorest of the pcor—nay, even the very class of the poor who were engaged in bringing about what he might venture to calla reign of terror, similar to that which, in another country, had cost a king his head and his crown. There was, as their honors were well aware, reason for belief that these men were but the rank and file in a revolutionary army whereof republicans and atheists of far higher social position, and, there- fore to be far more empkatically con- demned, secretly pulled the strings. Their honors were aware of what was meant by a “friend of the people” in these days. Was Dr. Hillyard one of such men? That he would not venture to say. But, in any case, there was reason to fear the mob on the night of the murder; and that any person pres- ent with that mob would have been well aware of the identity of Miss Hillyard, as the evidence to be pro- duced would clearly show. In any case, moreover, Dr. Hillyard was found next morning in exceedingly questionable company, on the Notting- ham road—company that went far to prove his connection with any riotous proceedoings that may have been in- tended. And in what condition was he found? His linen was soaked with re- cent blood. Whose blood? How_ ob- tained, on the night when Miss Hill- yard disappeared—Miss Hillyard, who was afterward found murdered in the pool near by? Dr. Hillyard gave no account of how or whence the blood had come. On the contrary, he gave no account of him- self whatever, and he only sought to conceal that he was in bodily pain and to hide the crimson stains. And now for the cui bono. No human being, save one, could gain by the death of this young and innocent girl. That hu- man or inhuman being was her heir- at-law; an heir who would thus step out at once from pauperism to the po- sition of the richest man in Notting- hamshire. And now let their honors mark— from that moment the prisoner became in some mysterious way, a wealthy man. Not only so, but a check pur- porting to be signed by Miss Hillyard ‘was presented by an unknown woman (query, the maid?) at a Nottingham bank, and by this means a large sum of money was transferred from the account of the dead lady to that of Dr. Hillyard. It is safe enough to make free with the names of the dead; they can prove no forgeries. But even the dead can, thank God, prove murders. Let John Parish be sworn. Mr. Lyon ceased; and then, for the first time, Basil realized the noose that every circumstance of his past life had been knitting around him. Could the poor girl have been barbarously mur- dered by the mob? Impossible! And yet what was impossible now? John Parish, an elderly man with bow legs in top boots, was the post- boy who drove Miss Hillyard and her maid from Derby. They were stopped by a mob; Luddites, they seemed to be. They were a dangerous mob, too, and he owned up to being scared, and the horses, too. “But the lady wasn’t scared—not she.. She gave it ’em with her tongue; and she told ’em with it she was Miss Hillyard of Lockmead. He took his solemn oath she told them she was Miss Hillyard of Lockmead, out loud so that everybody who wasn’t deaf could hear. The mob didn’t do her any harm. They were good-tem- bered in a sort of way. They turned the chaise back, and said if we’d stop at the top of the hill we'd just come down we should see a blaze. When we see if they’re as zs She opened the door; I didn’t see her get out, for I wae minding my horses; but I suppose she did, for I heard the chaise door slam to again; so I sup- posed she got in again, finding there Was naught to see. ‘Then the maid put out her head and said: ‘All right, postboy; drive on.’ How many min- utes did all that take? Oh, I should say a goodish few—the better part of half an hour. I was glad to rest the horses after coming up the hill; it’s steepish just there. I stopped when we got to Mansfield, having to be back at Derby, and she was going to Not- tingham. I didn’t see the lady when I left her at Mansfield. I she went into the inn. The maid paid me.” “Then you never really saw Miss Hillyard?” asked Sir John Harkness, “nor heard her voice after she bade you stop at the top of the hill? For aught you know, she may never have re-entered the chaise?” “Neither saw her nor heard her, your honor, after the top of the hill. But I never doubted ‘twas all right when the maid said ‘drive on.’” ‘Did you see me in the mob?” asked Basil. “Not I,” said the witness. ‘There were masks as weli as faces, and *twas dark as sin. All the same, you may have been there.” “You are quite sure she told the peo- ple she was Miss Hillyard?’ asked Sir John. “As sure, your honor, as I hear you.” The next witness was a postboy from Nottingham, who proved that he drove ene lady that night from the inn at Mansfield in a return chaise—one lady alone, elderly, hard-featured, and cer- tainly not Miss Hillyard. A hostler from the inn at Mansfield, and a chambermaid, proved that only one lady—elderly and hard-featured— had arrived in John Parish’s chaise. Clearly Miss Hillyard must have been left alone at the top of the hill. And that being a fact, it was useless to ask why. That she alone could tell. “Unless, indeed,” suggested Mr. Howe to his bréthren, “the maid was scared so she lost her wits, and supposed her mistress was in the chaise when she bade the post-boy to drive on, and | has afterwards been afraid of getting | into trouble. Elderly females are des- perately muddle-headed sometimes.” Basil, increasingly under the influ- | ence of a seeming nightmare, listened as stranger after stranger came for- ward, for justice’s sake, to swear his life from him; how Jonas Crabbe, mer- chant, of Bristol, parture for Lockmead; how the pool was emptied and the corpse of Miss Hillyard, bearing her initials, found. At last “Mr. en” was friend. sir, if you “And who are you, please?” asked Mr With a flat nose adv: need and waited for questioning. “I called Mr. Mor- wen; who are you?” “Eli Fletcher,’ said the man. “"Lis about that blood on the doctor; I saw it come.” “What, sir?’ “Fightin’ a chap from Yorkshire. A hundred on us were by.” “Come, we must get at the bottom of this,” said Mr. Lyon. “You mean to tell these gentlemen that the prisoner i played her part only too well was engaged in a prize-fight with a Yorkshireman on the Nottingham road?” “Not a prize-fight. "Twas Notting- ham again’ Yorkshire. That was all.” “And who was the Yorkshireman? What was his name? Is he here?” “Neyer heard his name,” said Eli; “but he could fight like a nian.” “May I ask if the prisoner is a friend of yours?” “Friend, master? That he be—the best friend to me and mine that ever were! For the doctor's sake, there's naught I wouldn't do, nor wouldn't swear. And every man and woman in Lockmead would do the same. That blood came o’ fightin’ Yorkshire. So, there!” “And every man and woman in Lockmead would swear the same?” asked Mr. Lyon. ‘Thank you, Mr. Fletcher. You have done your duty by your friend, and may go. Mr. Mor- wen, if you please.” “Mr, Amos Morwen, Justice of the Peace and stewayd to the late Miss Hillyard cf Lockmead,” said Mr. Lyon, respectfully, “you are well acquainted with the prisoner, I believe?” Amos Morwen looked the prisoner fully in the face without flinching. “Yes, I ain.” “And, as legal adviser to the the fam- ily, you know him to be Miss Hill- yard’s heir-at-law?” “T do.” “Then, kindly tell, sir, all you know of what occurred on the night when Miss Hillyard was last seen.” Amos Morwen had nerved himself for this days ago. His story came out as clear and firm as Lockmead’s chureb-bell. He told how Dr. Hillyard had left his house that night in com- pany with a strange girl, afterward in custody as engaged in an illegal con- spiracy. How the doctor had con- stantly expressed republican and sedi- tious opinions of an extreme and vio- lent kind. How he had all night been absent; how the next morning he re- turned covered with blood-stains, for which he avoided all explanation. Had he saidanything about fighting a Yorkshireman? Certainly not—noth- ing of the kind. Had he said anything of the expected rioters? Nothing of the kind. He had given no account of himself whatever, and was evidently bent upon concealing the stains. * * Was that all? The court would under- stand how painful it was to give evi- den¢e against an old friend. “Morwen,” cried Basil, ‘“‘who is. the owner of my poor cousin’s estate at this moment—I or you?” The moment had come. If he an- swered “I,” Basil’s motive for murder would fail; if “you,” he himself would lose Lockmead. But he was prepared. “I purchased the reversion of the poor lady’s estate for the trifle it was worth,” said he. “And why you should have sold it to me when that poor lady was lying dead within two miles of us, God knows.” « “Good God, Morwen!” cried the pris- oner, feeling the hideous nightmare closing around him. “Is it you who are speaking—is it you who would hint that I murdered my kinswoman for her inheritance, and then sold you a reversion that did not exist, so that if I was found out I might say the gain of blood was not mine, but yours?” “It was not I who made the hint,” said Morwen, coldly. “I am not here to give opinions. Pray, ask me no more.” ‘ “Great heaven! But if never found out, what was I to gain?” *Do you press that question, Dr. Hillyard?” “Yes, I do.” “Then I will answer as a lawyer. If you could have taken means to prove that Miss Hillyard was dead otherwise than by your hand, when you sold your reversion, the bargain would have been void for the error.” “I am not a lawyer. How should 1 know? And how could I invent Miss Hillyard’s death by natural means? # proved Miss Hill- | ; yard’s arrival by the Amazon and de- Lyon, as a giant | | What reason have you to imagine pon, such a scheme as that comes to sed enter a mind which, Morwen. to wat black, God help you, than your Have you a reason?” a “Do yon press that question? “Yes; hard.” : hace “Then I will answer. An attemp' been made to show that Miss he a yard’s death took place by Goaber means before your reversion was ‘sol “4 Her name appears, falsely, it seems, 4 a list of passengers drowned at sea. & need not say I did not kuow it at oe e time. Miss Hillyard did not sail in 4 ship that was lost with all hands—yer her name appeared. That is my renee for imagining that mine is not i ie mind which invents such schemes. ‘The evidence was closed; all but the evidence touching the banking trans- actions. But magistrates in those their judicial functions than at pres- ent, and left tials juries. The three entlemen consulted. ePrisoner,” said Sir John Harkness, “we shall commit you for the assizes. Have you anything to say? There is no occasion; but you may if you please.” “I have nothing to say,” said Basil. “I have been fighting, in one way OF another, all my life, and have never gained a victory. I had better make an end. Only two human beings can clear me. One has already condemn me—I hope, honestly. Another is # Woman who has already been slan- dered, and whose name shall not be injured by being joined with mine. I have no other witness—unless I call Margaret Hillyard from her grave.” “Is this another witness, Mr. Lyon asked Sir John. “We thought your ase was closed. No? Nevertheless, I think we ought to hear all we can. What is your name, my good girl?” “Margaret Hillyard,” said she. “The prisoner called her from her grave- She is come!” The lights were not out, the voices were not thin, the men and women were anything but ghosts who that evening were seated in the one good room of the one inn that Lockmead could boast. Rut there were five per- sons who had a marvelous amount to say and hear. But, in due course, Mr. Jonas Crabb dozes off to the land where even Quakers cease from troub- ling, save in dreams; and, under his very eyes (though it did not matter, seeing that they were closed) the hand of Julia, the impulsive, somehow found itself in that of the languid dragoon. Indeed, there were no witnesses, for Basil and Margaret were out on the somewhat crazy balcony, and the moon and stars were all their eyes could see which was not hers. Yet, if they did not belong to her she—Basil thought— belonged to them. “Ah, poor Susan!” she said; w “she Think of her letting the world whirl round her at Nottingham, cashing my checks and obeying my orders, and never saying a word to a soul! 1 nev- er thought she would have lasted half an hour. Cousin Basil, if I had not heard you were in trouble, she would have let you—yes, I will say it—die. For she would let even me die, if I said, ‘Do this; this is my will.’ Ah, it was the best sort of coming home, after all. I know my people, now, and they know me. Why are you so grave?” “Dear Grace—Cousin Margaret, I mean—we are under the stars. Hate has gone out of my soul.” “Basil, you did love poor Grace Lu- cas, I know. You loved her so truly that when you thought her guilty of some nameless sin—Margaret Hill- yard’s blind selfishness—you would not open the book she chose to close. And even when death stared you in the face, and held you in his grasp, you chose to die rather than that her book should be torn open by strange hands. Poor and sinful as she was, you saw but the woman in her. Can you see nothing but the heiress in me?” It was thus that a great heiress must be wooed—well for her when she knows that the answer shall be true. “I heard,” she whispered, flushing. “that I had been drowned. Basil, had you not been in danger, I meant to stay drowned. You were the real heir; you took the duties of the inheritance; I only took the gold. Is my death to be all in vain? Must I tell you even more?” she whispered, flushing. “I was so proud and happy to be coming home. I expected to find another Mount Vernon, only with free men and women, whom I could make happy in my own way, and not slaves, whom I could only make happy in theirs—and I was received as if I came as their mor- tal foe. What could I do? It was easy enough to change some clothes with my poor Susan, and warn that wretched man; for I knew by heart every step of the way. No; it was not brave. But what was that? I found you in my place, doing my work, and my duty, while I was playing at my Lady Bountiful elsewhere. What in- spired me to throw off the heiress, and become the poor necdlewoman, that I might learn what your life had been, and why my people hated my very rame, and what ought to be done? T think it must have been you. And all I learned was that I had no right to be there, rich or poor. Don’t speak, cous- in; let me say my last word. * * * I heard that I was thought drowned at sea. I leaped at that happy error; you were my heir, and your rightful inher- itance would then come to you. So Grace Lueas vanished!” Be “Good heaven, Grace—Margaret-” cried Basil; “do you say that you mcasit thus to give over all you had to me?” “Yes,.Cousin Basil; Lockmead, and Mount Vernon, and all. He who knew best how to do the duties should have the right and the means. Margaret Hillyard was eelfish and foolish, and hated and hateful; she deserved noth- ing; and Grace Lucas was of no use any more.” “But what would you have done?” “Oh, we would have got our living, Susan and I. * * * And if I had not heard that only my life could sa yours, so it would have been. Yor would have had the duties still, and the gold, too. And now—am I to have been drowned at sea all in vain? Is it that yum Called: me. Soest aes Sah ‘ou cal me caver! from my happy “Margaret!” And the great heiress was on heart of the rightful heir—she who tad refused forty-seven wooers, THE END. Se ntnaene SOAs A diver in Pyaney. has succeeded in remai at a depth of 157 feet, for paatip aa tans . a cy