Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, January 22, 1898, Page 6

* x SOT THE SIGN OF-=ss5- <THE GOLDEN HORN. KI LKISSI II SISSIES ISIS ASIII CHAPTER L. Black Treae TLe sun was settin; the broad plvin of the South Atlantic, throwing a glory of sunligh the great waste of waters changed from deep blue to copper-g and then to purple, while the amber sky above became rose, and then crimson. There was but one man to see the splendor, and he heeded it not. He was sitting at the stern of a half-decked sloop—-@ crazy, rotten old tub, overladen and nearly water-logged. There was not a breath of air to fill the big, black sail that hung in lazy folds trom the mast, and it mattered not a straw whether the man With the tiller in his hand moved to pert or starboard, for the vessel was making no wa He sat with his eyes fixed on the hor- izon, if he were expecting to see a sail rise there for his relief; “but his AzZ® Was not one of hopeless expecta- f gloomy bitterness. for a fellow to be int’ he “Better have rg to nimself. sre—the craft gettin’ ter every day, i rt, water runnin’ short, in the w despe ions runnin’ sh and me alone, except for a pal t good as a dead ’un. An’ if to come in si an’ we wer cued, the two ¢ . What have I to took forward to? I'll be landed in Eng- land poorer thin when I left. I’m to have nothing, I »pose, of what that sulky fool carries about, but what he likes to allow ine. No, by Heaven, that won't Go! Vil hay. t put straight before Vn. a quarte: of an hour older— th if tie fellow’s in his right mi He rose suddenly and walked a few feet forward. The sliding door of the little cabin fronted him. He pushed it noisily back, and the evening glow shone into a gloomy little den of a place, with a rough, narrow table in 1e iniddle, and four bunks at the two sides, two of side. In the lower bunk on the port side lay a man whose grizzled r and beard told that he least fifty years of age. His 's shone fiercely in hi: his thin white fingers iket as if he saw an rather must be a large black emaciated fac clutched the bl enen, or a possible enemy, a comrade, “ILow are you now, Jim?’ said the m:n who had been sitting at the stern, “Petter. I shall pull through ye' “Pm glad to hear it, for ’'m thinking i yout time that you and me had a a talk.” “A talk? About what? I don’t un- ind you, Joyce.” wll understand me soon enough. I want to know what I’m to have out of all this. What am I to have for helping you to escape, when you know as well as I do, that I might have made hundreds, and maybe thousands, by giving you away? I’ve stood your friend, and helped you to steal this cursed old hooker, that looks as if she meant to have the lives of both of us before we are done with her. Haven't I been as good as a brother, sharing the danger and all that? I say it’s as good a partnership as ever was struck. Don't k so?” “No, Joyce, it isn’t a partnership—not that it would put much in your pocket if it was,” he added, with a weak at- tempt at a laugh. “I don’t deny that you've acted fair and square by me, Joyce; and if ever we reach England Vil do what I can for you.” “And what might that be worth asked the other, with something heer. “TI—I—thought of making you a pres- ent of twenty pounds, Dick.” “Twenty pounds!” “I don’t see that youcan have any reason to complain. You said you wanted to go back to England. So did I, and we agreed to help each other. ‘You must not forget that I paid all ex- penses, Dick. And there isn’t much left. I—that is—we didn’t hit on the gold, not anything much.” “Then how are you going to pay me twenty pounds?” “I have friends in England.” “Friends! That for all the friends T've ever known! And I don’t expect yours is very different. No, Jim; my idea is that we should share and share alike; whatever one of us takes out of this cursed country, or rather this cursed old hooker, we should divide. It’s the only fair way, seeing that we're both in the same boat.” “TI can’t agree to that,” said the oth- er, shortly, “and I won’t—so there’s an end on’t. What rot to talk of partner- ship betweep men in our position, with little more than the clothes on our backs!” ‘The sick man looked keenly at his companion’s face, to see how he would take this; but Joyce made no sign that he attached any particular significance to the words. He was sitting on the edge of the opposite bunk, his eyes on the cabin floor. He was a good-looking fellow, although he had reached middle His features were good. There nothing paltry or mean about them. But he had a lowering eye, and his lips were sensual and cruel, There was a long weal, the mark of a wound received in a brawl, across his right cheek; and this scar, hardly visible at most times, became fiery-red when the man was moved to anger, or any other passion. The scar burned across his hairy cheek now, and Clarkson, the man in the bunk, shrank from him as she looked. Joyce rose and moved toward the door. *I—I’m very thirsty, Dick. Do you think you could get me a drop of wa- ter?” “Once more, Jim,” said the other, -sternly, “will you do the fair thing by me? Will you halve your swag with sme?” “It’s not worth halving, Dick. But, was little as it is, I should like to keep it. <I’! give you twenty pounds.” “And that’s your last word?” “Yes. I wish you would give me some water.” As soon as Joyce left the cabin, Clarkson's hand stole under some spare clothes which formed his pillow, and his fingers touched a rough, stiff cloth, behind which were many knotty pro- tuberances.* The touch satisfied him. He withdrew his hand, and was ready to take the pannikin of water when his companion handed» it to him. Joyce got together the materials for his supper, such as it was, and ate it in the cabin. The sick man could eat nothing, but he drank some more wa- tor greedily. It was night, and Joyce rolled his blanket round him and lay down in one of the vacant berths. He could not watch all day and all night too, he told himself, so he left the tiller lashed imidships and lay down. In less than five minutes he was fast asleep and snoring. Clarkson lay and watched him, but no sleep came to his eyes un- til the grey light of dawn stole through the half-open door. With the daylight sleep, wooed in vain all night, came to him of her own accord, and he slept like one already dead. When the sunbeams rose warm and strong into the cabin, Joyce awoke and looked about him. He arose lazily and, without making any change in his at- tire beyond tightening his belt, which he had loosed when he lay down, he went out into the “well” of the boat, and let his gaze travel round the hori- zon. But before he had completel the cir- cuit he gave a loud gasp and cry. For there, not many miles to the south- ward was the smoke of a steamer! Dick’s first impulse was to dash into the cabin, and to tell the good news to his comrade. But Jim Clarkson was still sleeping. Even the hoarse cry of delight which Joyce had uttered when he saw the smoke had not aroused him, I hate him—the stingy beast!” id aloud, though under bis “Serve him right if I don’t weke him at all! I’m not his partner, why should I? I’m not bound to. Twenty pounds! And his belt as full of nuggets as it will hold!” An evil thought, born of envy, and nursed by a certain sense that the sick man was not treating him fairly, had come into his mind; it made the sweat break on his brow, and caused his legs mble underneath him. 's see if I could do it,” he said to himself, smiling as he spoke. “If he wakes I'll pretend it was a joke to frighten him. If he doesn’t—I’ll think of it. I don’t need to do it unless 1 like.” He stooped and picked up a bit of canyas that lay on the floor, and rolled it into a stiff roll four of five inches in diameter. Then he crouched down at the head of the bunk, being as careful to keep out of the line of sight of the si man as if he were awake and able to defend himself. Then he grip- ped the bundle of clothing on which Clarkson’s head lay, and held it firmly against the head of the berth, so that it would not sink; and not until this was done did he insert the ends of his fingers under the bundle. His instinct had not misled him. The bundle was there. .Yery gently he pulled it awayy Shiny Iding the bundle up with his other “Hnd, and as soon as it was free, he inserted the roll of canvas in its place. The operation was entirely successful. The belt of which Jim Clarkson had raved through many a feyer-stricken night was in his hands at last! A curse was breathed on the air gent- ly, so as not to disturb the sleeper, when Joyce lifted the belt. It was far lighter than he had expected to find it —far too light to be filled with gold nuggets and gold dust. But when he came to feel gently along its entire length, a new expression, one of in- credulous wonder, came into his face. Hastily drawing out his knife, he slit one of the many short seams which crossed the belt in all directions, and there dropped into his palm what looked to him like two or three flint pebbles. Joyce had been long enough in South Africa to know that they were diamonds. He slipped the diamonds into his pocket, and threw another look at the sleeping man, this time a look of tri- umphant hate. “To have all these thousands at his middle and talk of giving mé twenty pounds—the mean hound!” was the thought in his mind as he left the cabin with the belt in his hand, At the first look he gave seaward his heart almost stopped beating. The steamer was actually passing them at a distance of about three miles. She had been far nearer than he had sup- posed. Dropping the belt, he tore off his shirt, and a minute later it was fluttering im the light breeze half-way up the mast, and Joyce was standing, nearly naked, staring at the steamer, with eyes which looked as if madness was Lot very far off. Soon a booming sound came over the sea. It was the steamer’s whistle, blown to assure the castaway that his signal had been seen, and that help would be sent. At the same moment she altered her course, heading almost directly for the sloop. Joyce drew the shirt down and put it on. He then entered the cabin on tip- toe, and, carefully averting his face from the man in the bunk, he gathered together a few clothes—all he had brought with him—and tied them se- curely in a bundle, with the canvas belt at the bottom of it. By the time this was done the steamer was close by, and a small boat was leaving her side, “He's too ill tobe transhipped. He would die if they were to haul him up the side of that big steamer. He's bound to die any way; a little sooner or later, what matter? There may come along another steamer to-morrow, as likely as not. There will be biscuit and water enough for him now, at all events.” With such-like pretenses | been standing all this time at the! cleared her throat, sat upright, and Joyce replied to the still small voice - that told him he was playing the part of a villain and a murderer. In an incredibly short space of time, before Joyce was willing to confess to himself that his mind was made up, | the steamer’s boat was aypproaching the sloop’s bows. Joyce ran swiftly forward on naked feet, his bundle in his hand, on to the forecastle, and along the bowsprit, from which he dropped into the middle of the boat. “Well done, my man,” said a rough, good-humored voice—how sweet it sounded to the ears of the castaway— “you're in a deuce of a hurry! Any- body else on board?” “No. Not likely any one would be ; there and not be as keen to get away | as 1 am!’ and the man looked so cited and queer, that the offiecer in charge of the boat made him swallow a mouthful of rum. “IT ought to go on board—these were my orders,” the officer said to himself; but it seemed unnecessary. No one | could be on board without coming on | deck. To make sure, he let the hulk— | she was little else—drift past him, and | standing up as she went by, he looked | into her. Joyce could not lift his yes | from the deck. He was sick with ap-'| prehension. The mate could see in at | the open deor of the cabin. He could | see the table of rough wood, but he | could not see into the bunks. The in- | spection satisfied him. He made a sign | to his men, and in a few minutes they | were on board the steamer. Joyce’s story was that he had been | blown off the coast, there being no one | on beard but himself at the time. The | story did not sound yery probable; but | there was no proof against the man. | The captain did not wish to delay an- | other ininute; and the sloop, even if it | ahd been stolen, as the captain strong- ly suspected it had, would not pay any one to take her in tow; so, after a keen glance atthe rescued man, the captain left him, and gave the signal! “Full speed ahead!” An kour later Clarkson awoke. He | yas very thirsty, but better and stronger than he had been for some days. After @rinking from the panni- kin that Joyce had put on the floor be- | side him the night before, he called for his companion. No answer. No sound of any kink. He called again—again. i 'The silence frightened him. He got | over the side of tae bunk, and crawled | through the open doorw No one was there! Away, far away on the hor- izon, there was a trail of smoke in the ou? You haven't | when you might | ou? You can’t | s only the call- “Joyce, where are left me here to peri: have taken me with have done that! It w ing of me! Dick! You wouldn't. play me such a cruel trick as that, Dick! But, for pity’s sake, speak to me, and tell me that yoa'’re here, or I shall go rad’ He could not believe that he had been left there to die! ‘Then a sudden fear blanched his face so that, white as it had been before, 11 | was whiter now. He crawled back in- to the cabin, pulled away the bundle, saw the roll of sailcloth, and the awful truth came home to him. One shriek sed his lips, and he fell senseless to bin floor! the CHAPTER II. In the Chamber of Death. In the window of a sitting room that looked out upon a garden full of flow- ers, sat a young girl crying bitterly. The sound of the wheels of the doc- tor's gig had just died away and he had given her no hope. She knew now that up-stairs in the sunshine of the summer morning her best friend lay dyin From her earliest girlhood Ursula Joyce had looked upon Miss Upton of the Old Rectory as her protector and friend. She had been a mother to the orphan girl. She had paid for her | schooling and taken her to live with her at her home during the holidays, so that the child looked upon the Old Rectory as her home. And now Miss Upton was dying, and she would never come there any more—never see the kind old face bend over her any more —never be able to prove, as she had always looked forward to doing, how full her heart was of gratitude and love. For quite half an hour Ursula sat there at the window, for she knew that | a nurse was with Miss Upton, and she did not wish to appear in the sick room until she became calmer. She was in the act of rising to go up stairs when she heard the sound of wheels, and looking out, she saw a fly the one from the King’s Arms at Tilbridge, at the door. Mr. Lawson, the lawyer, whom she knew well by sight, came out, and Ursula sat down again, for she knew that ske could not go up stairs for a while yet. Mr. Lawson, a hale old man of sixty- five, who was solicitor to half the folks in that part of the county, was shown into a spacious, low-ceilinged bed room, where a small old.lady with snow-white hair and a skin like crumpled satin, lay on the bed, very still, a smile upon her face. She gave her old friend, the lawyer, her hand in silence, and when they had greeted each other she made a sign to the nurse to go to the other end of the room. “T thought you would not mind the trouble of coming over,” she said, in her weak quivering voice, “when I tell you that it will make it easier for me to die. You know that my income dies with me, and that I have left all the little I have to leave to Ursula Joyce, whom I have loved like a @aughter. You have the little tin box I gave you put away safely?” “You may make your mind quite easy about that. It is in my safe, and there it shall remain until after Sir Julius’ death. The day after his death I will give it to Miss Joyce, or open it in her presence, I think you said.” “Quite right. But if you should die before—”’ “I have left directions to my execut- or specially about it, in a codicil to my will.” “How good and kind of you! And now I have only this to say—even if my brother-in-law should still be alive at the end of three years, open it then.” “J will do so, Miss Upton.” “And when it is done, I wish you to give this message from me to Ursula: That I did it for the best. Tell her I loved her as if she had been my own child, and did it for the best.” The lawyer promised; but yet the dying woman seemed to be unsatis- fied. She begzed the nurse, who had | Wheels on the gravel outside; | him, and I have good reason to remem- | yea | he | Sula, | to and fro. | English like a native and was thor- | its, | appear even taller than he was, and | the young man answered it. | be together in time of trcuble, as well window, to leave the room; and when she and the lawyer were alone she made him bend down his head till her lips almost touched his hair. He started when the tirst words had been breathed into his ear—started and stood upright, looking at his old friend with wonder and something like dis- may. “You—you know what you are say- ing?” he said, in a low tone. For an- swer she only smiled at him, such a bright intelligent smile, that his mo- mentary doubt on that point was set at rest on the spot. “And you did this all by yourself?” She nodded. “And in Justice to Cap- tain Winter, perhaps you ought to tell him. I must leave that to you.” “Please don’t leave it to me, Miss Upton!” cried the lawyer. “I really Sess undertake the responsibility— He was interrupted by a und of and, in invalid, of the obedience to a look from the Mr. Lawson stepped to one windows and looked out. “Sir Julius Winter!” he exclaimed, | in a tone of astonishment. | “Don’t let him come in here!” cried | Miss Upton, her manner changing in a | moment from tranquil repose to agita- | tion that was almost terror. i “You don’t know what that man is!” she cried, as she shrank beneath the | bed clothes; “the world does not) know what he is in reality. I know ber him. He killed my poor sister, my sweet Masie! No; you needn't; look at me like that. I am not mad. There are other ways of killing a young girl than poison or a bullet. And he shall not come here to torment me on my death-bed. Lock the door, Mr. Lawson! Don’t let him come in!” “How the man must have bullied those two women, that they should feel like this to him after twenty ’ said the lawyer to himself, as ossed again to the window. “He is not coming in,” he called out. “He is not leaving the brougham. He has only called to inquire after you.” But Miss Upton had been too much affected by her brother-in-law’s visit to regain her composure all at once. She begged her friend to send for Ur- and bade him good-bye. The lawyer stepped slowly down stairs, and in the wide-raftered hall he found a tall young man, strikingly hand- some, and dark as an Italian, pacing Eugene, Clovis was a dis- tant connection of Miss Upton, whom he always called acnt. His father had been a Frenchman; he had been edu- cated in France; and, though he spoke oughly conversant with English hab- was French from the toes of his patent-leather boots to his closely- cropped black hair. He wore habitual- ly a long frock-coat, which made him his long black moustache and piercing dark eyes gave him a striking appear- ance. The lawyer's look, as he coldly of- fered his hand, was a question, and “Came down last night—melancholy occasion; but my aunt has been more like a mother to me, and I thought it my duty to come. Just at present 1 am playing watch-dog. My very good friend is in there, making love to my pretty cousin. To a more worldly creature like myself, it does not seem quite the time nor the place for love- making; but doubtless—” “{ don’t see that at all, Mr. Clovis,” said the lawyer. “I mean that where there is a sincere attachment, like that ! between your friend Jester and Ursu- la Joyce, they will naturally wish to as in time of joy and_merrymaking. But I want to see Miss Joyce.” “Then I will announce you by a vig- orous rattling at the door-handle. My friend Lester generously bestowed the post of doorkeeper upon me, while he entertained the lady within—for which mark of favor I cannot be too grate- ful.” The lawyer smiled, and gave the grave young man a quick look. He understood that this came from jeal- ousy—black, bitter jealousy of his friend, Frank Lester. It was a pretty sight that met the lawyer’s eyes as he entered the room. Ursula was sitting on a sofa; at her side was a fine, strong fellow with an eye as sweet as a woman’s. Candor, gcod-humor and a certain careless in- dependence were written large upon Frank Lester’s face. The two were hand-in-hand, but were not sitting to- gether. ‘There was no appearance of love-making about either of them, for beth looked grave and sad. Ursula sprang to her feet as soon as she saw the lawyer, and asked whether she might go up stairs. The lawyer nod- ded, saying that Miss Upton had asked for her. ‘he sweet lips trembled, and the gentle gray eyes filled with tears as she left the room. She found the hall empty, and passing quickly to Miss Upton’s room, and falling on her knees at the bedside, she seized the hand that hung so pallid and transparent outside the counterpane, and covered it with kisses. “My own child!’ murmured the dy- ing woman, as a look of triumphant love came into her face. “May I stay with you to the last? Promise me!” “Yes, dear child, you shall!” * * * * * * The funeral was over; the blinds of the Old Rectory were drawn up; Mr. Clovis, who had edified the whole par- ish by sobbing at the grave in most heart-broken fashion, had gone back to town; and Ursula had gone back ‘to the school at which she had been edu- cated, and where she was now en- gaged in teaching. She was sitting one evening over some exercise books, when Mrs. West- macott, the mistress of the establish- ment, came to her and said: “My dear, there is a person in the drawing room asking for you. He is not exactly a gentleman, but he calls himself by your name—Joyce, so I did not like to deny him to you. He looks as if he had been in the colonies, you know. And he has the mark of a cut right across there.” And the school- mistress laid her finger on her own soft cheek.. “Do you know him, my dear?” . Ursula had turned very white. She caught at her throat as if something were choking her, tried to speak, and found that she could not. Thea she said boldly: “It is my father.” CHAPTER III. A False Friend, Ursula sat perfectly still for a min- ute or two after Mrs. Westmacott left her, trying to realize what this was that had come to her. She had been} but a child of seven when her father, a blacksmith in a small way of busi- ness. had fallen under suspicion of be- ing concerned in a bad poaching at- fray, in which two gamekeepers on the estate of Squire Lester, Frank’s father, had been severely wounded. The Squire had taken up the prose- eution with great bitterness, and Joyce had been compelled to fiee the coun- try. Since then nothing had been heard of him. Her mother had died a year later, and Miss Upton had made the upbringing of the girl her own af- fair. Ursula had always supposed her father to be dead; but lately she had wondered whether this was really the case, or whether her nearest relative was still alive, and one day she should see him again. She rose and went into the drawing room, trembling all over. A big man, dressed in a black frock coat that did not become him, stood on the rug with his back to the empty fire-place. | He stared at her for a moment in pleased sudprise, and then, covering | the distance between them in three | immense strides, he came up to her, | threw his arms around her and kissed | her. She submitted to the embrace | without a word—indeed, she could | scarcely have spoken at that moment to save her life. “Well, you have turned out a ripper, } and no mistake!” he cried, with much exuliation. “Whoever has brought you | up has dore the handsome thing by | you; that I will say. I never thought I'd find you so handsome. And aren’t you glad to see me, U ? Aren't you glad to see your old dad back a: sula was one of those who from an untruth, however necessary it may seem, an she could not find it in her heart to say that she was glad to find this big, ¢ ‘se-looking man Ww: her father. She had expected that ture would prompt her to throw he self into her father’s arms; but Nature did not seem to have a word to say on the subject. “It is all so strange, father,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “You must give me time to get accustomed to the new relationship. But, indeed, | I will do my best to be a good and loy- i | ing caugh to you. “That's right, my girl,” said Joyce, | heartily. “You can’t say fairer than | that. And I mean to be a good father | | to you. So that’s all right. And I can tell you this, my girl, that you'll it was a good day for you when I cam home. They tell me you're a govern- | ess here. No more slavery for you, my dear! I’ve come home a rich man —how rich I can’t very well say just | now; but far richer than any of the} folks about here. My money’s not come in yet, but I enough to go on with; and, as a beginning, here’s a tri- fle to get yourself clothes and things,” and he stuffed half-a dozen five-pound notes in her hand. “I have taken a to let not far from here —the Old Rectory, they call it—and we will live there in the meantime.” This was a surprise, and a very pleasant one, to Ursu To go back to the house she had known as the dearest place on earth, even under al- tered conditions, would be a great pleasure to her. So much was her heart lightened, that she found herself able to put her arms around her fath- er’s neck and kiss him of her own ac- cord. ‘ A week later Joyce and his daughter were settled in Miss Upton’s old home. He treated the girl well on the whole, and although his innate vulgarity jarred on her a hundred times a day, she tried to make the best of things, and succeeded fairly well. One morning, when the two were at breakfast, Joyce began bragging, as he often did, of what he would do when his money came in, as he ex- pressed it. “You shall marry a lord, Ursy,” he said, as he ate an egg at one gulp. “Nothing less will satisfy me, you may bet your life!” “But, father,” said Ursula, flushing over cheeks and brow and ears—‘I— perhaps I ought to have told you sooner, but there never seemed to be 2 good opportunity—the truth is, father, I’m engaged already!” Her father laid down his egg-spoon and stared at her. “The deuce you are! the young man be?” “Frank Lester, father.” “What!” The word was shouted at the girl in such a voice that she start- ed and shrank as if someone had struck her a blow. “You don’t mean for to go and tell me that you’ve gone and got yourself engaged to the son of the man as hourded me out of the country as if E had been a mad dog?” “I don’t know what his father may have done to you, but Frank Lester asked me some months ago to be his wife, and I promised to marry him. 1 thought it was a great honor he did me—me that was only a governess in school” “I dare say. Now, look here, my girl, What you have to do is to write to this sweetheart of yours, and say that ev- erything is changed now, and all thoughts of you two marrying must be given up. Do you hear?’ The last words he roared out in the same terri- ple voice as before; but, luckily, he went on without waiting for an an swer. “When I came back to this country, the first person I asked after was my wife. They told me she was dead. The next I asked after was Squire Lester. I meant to get even with him if it cost the last penny I nossessed. They told me he wa* dead, too. That was the worse news to me. But they told me he died a heart-brok- en, ruined man; and that was a drop of sweetness, I can tell you. He mud- dled away his farms on mining eom- panies and such-like, and his son was left with naught but the old house, and never an acre of land to keep it up with. Good! And now you want to marry this very man? You want to bring my hear-arned money to put this man’s son back in the place his father held! No, by Heaven!” i “Father, of course you may do what you like with your money. But my promise was given before—” He interrupted her with an oath, and struck the table savagely with his fist, repeating what he had already said with even greater vehemence. Ursula And who may had not strength to keep up the discus- sion, and she was glad to escape fronr the room without giving the promise that had been demanded from her. But this was only the beginning of sorrows. Her father would not leave the subject alone. 1t seemed to amount almost to a monomania with him that the son of ‘the man he had hated should call him father. At length Ur- sula came to see that she must leave her father’s house, and that at once, or else give up her lover; and she could not see that it could be her duty to abandon her parent so soon after he had been given back to her, as it were, from the grave. Sv she doubted aut hesitated; and, one evening, when six was weary and sick at heart, her fath-/ ec fairly frightened her into compli- ance with his will. He had been drink- ing and swore a horrid oath that he would shoot Frank Lester on his wed- ding day if she married him, and send the rext bullet through his own brain. Ursula had not forgotten the awful fits of temper in which he used to ter- rify her mother and herself into sub- mission in the old da Pheir influ- ence was still upon bh as he gazed asterful face, those eyes in which fury raged uncontrolled. She believed him. She believed, at least, for the moment, that if she were to defy her father the result would be a tragedy, and—she gave way. She wrote to her lo that very night, and told him that, for the present, at all events, the engagement between them must be at an end. Eugene Cloy happened to be in nk Lester’s rooms when this letter ved, and Frank ed it on to his friend without a word. Clevis could sc light. He saw tha : had done more for him than he could ever have done for himself. For he had loved Ursula for years; add the only reason he had kept up his 2c- quaintance with Frank was that 1 might hear news of her, and possibly find some way of separating the lovers and taking Frank’s place. The time What he to stretch out his hanc ‘ank’s hand, to show his conceal his de- is man Joye pathy. “Thank you, Clovis. I knew you would feel for me. Of cour: I don’t mean to g nd yet, for th she was go down to ve her up moment, it almost s lost to me fore Tilbridge and see Joyee. I can't be- lieve that he should be so grossly un- reasonable. Perhaps 1 shall be able to soften him a bit.” “I'll tell you what,” said Clovis, after hort se. “I have to go down to ‘Tilbridge in a day or two, to look after some of my aunt’s s. You know Mr. Joyce has taken her house fur- nished. I can see what the man is like, and report to you. to make him see how unres is to keep up the old grudge against your father, and make you pay the pevalty of his misdeec whe you were to go yourself, without the ground being prepared for you, you would very likely quarrel with him, and make matters wor “Thank you, Clov! friend!” cried Frank. - In the m , I will write to Ursula ard tell her that we must have patience, and that I have not the smallest intention of letting her off that promise.” Clovis went down to Tilbridge on the third day after this conver 3; and he played the cards fortune had put into his hands with great skill. He never mentioned the subject of Ursu- la’s love affair when the father and daughter were together; but he man- aged to get Ursula by herself two or three times, and then he acted the part of a sympathizing brother, who thinks that the outlook is so dark that there is really no room for hope, but hesitates to say as much for fear of giving pain. rank is the best fellow in the world—I don’t need to tell you that, Miss Joyce, and, of course, he swe he will never give you up. No one that has known what it is to have the sure of your love could 1 don’t think he a strength of your father’s ¢ He is impulsive, you know, and san- guine—very sanguine. He is trying to write for the press, and talks of mak- ing an income out of it in a year or two. Poor fellow—" Mr. Clovis sighed heavily, and shook his head,( and Ursula was convinced that he was a true friend to Frank and herself, and at the same time was made to think that if she trusted to ¥rank’s endeavors to make a home for her, idependently of her father, she would spend her life im desolate wait- ing. In the meantime, Clovis laid himself out to win Joyce’s confidence, and in this he thoroughly succeeded. Joyce told him a good deal that was true about his life at the Cape, and also a good deal that was pure lying brag. He spoke with the utmost contempt of Frank Lester, and his pretensions to his daughter’s hand; and Clovis met the denunciations and insults heaped upon his absent friend with a depreca- tory smile, as much as to say that it was all too true, and that, really, he had not a word to say for Lester. Once, when Joyce seemed to demand some more explicit expression of opin- ion, he said, as if with a burst of can- dor: “Well, you know Frank is a chip of the old block—full of pride and self- eonfidence, just as I have heard his father was. He has all the pride of the reduced gentleman, and you know there is no pride like that. He.is selt- willed, too; and I fancy he will take Ursula in spite of you if he can.” This made Joyce wild with rage. “Pride!” he roared. “I should like to know what a pauper like him has to be proud of? He take my daughter in spite of me? If he dares to show his face in this village ll horsewhip him; and you may tell him that for me!” Again Clovis smiled with the sy air of deprecating apology for beth. the friend of such a ruffian as Frank Lester, and quietly left the room. When ‘he returned to London he found Lester in bed with a feverish eold. He had just missed a serious illness, the disorder being aggravated by the mental suffering he was endur- ing. Clovis proved a veritable Job's comforter to him; for the news he brought him was that Joyce was more obstinately set against him than he (Clovis) could have believed. possible, and that Ursula was convinced that opposition to her father was hopeless, and that they had better resign then selves to the inevitable. (To Be Continued.) es ' i “4 = = ( { | | | { | Pa i | | } ’ } 1 7 } bi F Ei a ' ' i i }