Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, June 17, 1908, Page 7

“The Shadow Between” SILAS K. HOCKING. CHAPTER I1.—Continued. She had made up her mind that if she did not like Mr. Mayhew she would not stay with him. She had often wondered what claim her father had on him, and why he should as- sume that he would undertake the re- sponsibility of providing her with a home. But speculation brought her no nearer a solution of the problem. She would have to wait until she reached the end of her journey. Suddenly her reflections wer einter- rupted by a shock that nearly threw her to the floor, accompanied by a noise like the ripping of a silk dress. A second shock followed, less violent than the first, and then the great ship came to a standstill. For a moment Marion did not feel greatly alarmed. She put on the warm coat with some deliberation and then hurried along to the g yay. Here a knot of excited men and women were struggling to be first on deck. In a few moments shrieks and cries were heard mingling with the stern voice of the captain, who was giv his commands. The forepart e vessel seemed to be firmly zed on unseen rocks; her stern wa tiling slowly into the water. For a while the confusion was made worse confounded by the hiss and sputter of rockets and the melancholy 5 of the siren. Then the fog lift- ed for a moment of two and the fierce gleom from the Lizard light lay across the deck. Then a cry was heard from the shore, muffled and indistinct, then the fog closed again and everything was blotted out. The davits were being swung out and the boats lowered with all possi- ble speed. The captain did not at- tempt to hide the fact that the Ne- braska was doomed. The stokers 1 enginemen rushed on deck with stricken faces. he women first,” the captain shouted, and he stood with a revolver in Fis hand to see that his orders were carried out. at happened after that no one . Some of the boats were afely, and with their com- ‘nt of passengers disappeared in darkness. Other boats got jammed and were of no use whatever. At the last it was every man for him- In twenty minutes after the Ne- struck she had disappeared, snd the sea rolled on as though noth- ug had happened. plen the CHAPTER III. The Jaws of Death. The rockets that were sent up from the doomed ship naturally alarmed the dwellers on the short and in a few minutes three boats were launch- ed from as many different points, and were being pulled rapidly in the direc- of the treacherous Beetles, on which so many richly-equipped ves: sels had gone to destruction. Farther inland the sound of firing was distinctly heard, and from lonely farmsteads and wayside cottages men and women and even children went forth in the murky night and hurried toward the cliffs with all possible They might not be able to ren- der much assistance, but they might ciscover what had happened. Knowl- edse was always better than doubt and uncertainty. Among the first to light his lantern and set his face toward the sea was the owner of Mawgan Chase, a quaint old manor house, set in the lap of the hills surrounded by a wide belt of tion speed. trees. ing the broad stairs dressed for din- ner when crack! crack! crack! went the first signals of distress. The sound was muffled and far away, but there was no mistaking its meaning. He had heard it many times before aud never without a shudder. At the foot of the stairs he met his only sister, a stately, handsome girl several years younger than himself. “Did you hear the firing, Clem?” she asked in a tone of suppressed excite- ment. “{ did, Esther. There goes another report. I’m off. Excuse me to moth- er. “But you cannot go out in evening dress and slippers.” “Vl put on a thick pair of boots and overcoat. Heaven help the poor wretches on the Beetles to-night.” “But do be careful of yourself, Clem. The cliffs will be frightfully treacher- ous.” “] know, Esther. Don’t alarm your- self on my account, but keep in good fires; we may have to be busy to- night. There goes another signal of distress,” and he turned in the direc- tion of the servants’ hall, where the boots and coats were kept. Esther hurried upstairs to her moth- er’s room, and found her standing be- fore a mirror arranging her cap. “Has the gong gone?” she asked, a litt’e querulously. “I do believe my hearing is gettirs; worse and worse.” the gong has not gone yet,” Esther answered, breathlessly; “but have you teard the firing? Clem fears tnat ‘eh ob it Se ES HA Clement Mawgan was descend- ; some big vessel has gone on the Beetles.” Mrs. Mawgan sank into the nearest chair with a little gasp. “I hope Clem- ent is mistaken,” she panted. “He is a little imaginative sometimes—don’t you think so? But hark!” “That is another signal, mother. There can be no doubt that some ves- sel is in distress.” “It is very dreadful to think of,” Mrs. Mawgan wailed. “The last time there was a wreck on the Beetles our house was full for days.” “We should be very thankful if we can render any assistance. But there goes the gong. Had we not better get our dinner? Clem asked me to ex- cuse him to you.” “Has he gone out?” “TI expect he will be half-way to St. Chloe bay by this. He would not stop even to change his clothes.” “Clement can be quite energetic when there is any excitement in the air,”,she said, plaintively. “I wish he would display a little energy at other times.” They descended the stairs in silence, and Mrs. Mawgan seated her- self at the head of the table. Esther sat down at her right hand. An old for nearly fifty years waited on them —he was the last remaining symbol of more prosperous days. It was a very silent meal, and almost as simple as it was silent. There were courses enough, and a brave pretence of style and luxury; for Mrs. Mawgan could never forget an earlier time, when the luxuries of every season were found upon her table—but the actual cost of the meal would have filled most housewives with astonishment. When she married Charles Mawgan she was regarded as the most fortu- nate girl of her set. Not only was he of good family, but he had what a great many good families had not— traditions. Some people said he was the wealthiest commoner in the duchy. Be that as it may, he had sufficient to gratify even the most extravagant desire. Much, however, would have more. Moreover, the passion for speculation was in his blood. Both his father and grandfather had been keen speculat- ors, and as fortunate as they had been keen. That he should desire to tread in their footsteps was, perhaps, only natural. The life of a country gentleman might have its charms, but it lacked excitement. He wanted something to stir his blood. A flutter on the stock exchange would give piquancy to existence. How he got acquainted with the set he did no one knew. He hardly knew himself. He had prided himself on his keenness—on his ability to see round a corner—on his skill in read- ing character. It was an old story now. Charles Mawgan had been in his grave these twenty years and more—died, people said, of a broken heart. The knowl- edge that he had been outwitted—out- maneuvered—that like a foolish trout he had risen to the gilded fly—hum- bled him beyond endurance. Had he lost his wealth through mis- fortune, or, as the lawyers would say, by any act of God, he would have borne the blow bravely and faced the future with courage. But to be duped and swindled by a mere adven- turer was humiliation too great to be borne. He retired to the seclusion of Maw- gan Chase and scarcely saw any one again. Twelve months later he was laid to rest in St. Chloe parish church and his wife was left to face the world as best she could. Fortunately she had a small income of her own, and this, added to what was saved from the wreck of her hus- band’s fortune, enabled her to main- tain a position of outward gentility. But how great the struggle was few people guessed. Anne Mawgan was a proud woman, and she would rather have died than confessed to the straits to which she was put. Most of her love was lavished on her son. Clement was the light of her eyes. She disposed of a good deal of her jewelry that he might have four years at Oxford, and he never guessed till a considerable time after how much she had sacrificed on his ac- count. ‘ He wanted to read for the bar, but | to this she raised strong objections. Her ambition was that he should be a country gentleman—that he should continue to reside at Mawgan Chase— that he should marry into some rich county family, and in this way should refurbish the ancient name. Clement had not the heart or the courage to run counter to his moth- er’s wish. Remembering all she had sacrificed on his account, it seemed a cruel thing to thwart her in this, par- ticularly as one or two small legacies from deceased relatives made it a lit- tle less difficult to play the role she desired. Gradually he tcok the management of the small estate into his own hands, became interested in local affairs, got elected to the county council, and at the time our story opens had been made a J. P. On the who'e, however, events had ; Not worked out to Mrs. Mawzan’s sat- butler who had been in the family | the wherewithal to keep up the family | ed the role of country gentleman with outward success, but it was as clear as daylight to her watchful eyes that he was anything but satisfied. Not that he ever complained, and when once or twice she questioned him she could get no admission from his lips that he was discontented with his manner of life. But month by month he grew more silent, more indifferent to the small social functions of the neighborhood, and more cynical in his speech. He spent hours in his garden and in the library reading and smoking, when he might have been presiding at fancy fairs and attending garden parties. The Jong summer days with absolute- ly nothing to do bored him; the long winter evenings threatened to become intolerable. He was conscious himself of a vague unrest, a haunting sense of something different—something that should give him interest to life and lift the growing burden of ennui from his shoulders, On the day in question he had felt too bored to talk and too indolent to stir out of the house. There was noth- ing to go out of the house for. The ground was so sodden with a fort- night’s rain; the skies were dark and lowering; the sea -was shrouded in a gray mist; the trees stood up bare and gaunt against a background of brown hills. The whole aspect of Nature was melancholy in the extreme. Once or twice he had gone to the window and stood with hands in pock- ets, looking out over the depressing landscape. A melancholy yew tree dripped innumerable tears on the sodden lawn; a robin hopped discon- solately under the window. At the end of/ one of the graveled paths a couple of starlings were fighting over a worm; a green-eyed cat was waiting to spring a dozen yards away. Each time he had turned back to his easy chair by the fire with a sigh. His mother and sister found interest in looking after the affairs of the house; in making doyleys and darning socks, and in seeing that the meals were properly prepared; but he had nothing to do. That was the trouble; though had any one asked him what ailed him he would scarcely have been able to give an intelligible answer. He was thankful when the time came to go upstairs to dress for din- ner. It was a change to don a fresh suit of clothes, and there was a glim- mer of interest in speculating what kind of joint would appear on the table, He sauntered down stairs before the gong sounded, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes expressive of | utter weariness and discontent. He had never before felt himself so deep- ly in the slough of despond, and he saw no way out. Then suddenly—muffied and insis- tinct—broke the signals of distress upon his ears, and he was alert in a moment. At last there was something to call him out of doors—something to stir his sluggish blood. His dinner might wait or go untasted, his brier might lie unfilled on the library man- telpiece, his dress suit might be crush- ed by his heavy overcoat or spoiled by salt water—nothing mattered. The signals were calling him and he must go. The fog was settling into a soaking drizzle when he left the house; the night was intensely dark, Leaving the main road after he had gone a few hundred yards he struck out across the fields and made a bee-line for the cliffs. The rockets had ceased firing now, and the only sound that broke the stillness was the low booming of the waves among the rocks. He won- dered what had happened. Had the vessel foundered, or was she jammed on the rocks? If the latter there might be no loss of life, but if the former, then another huge grave might have to be dug in St. Chloe churchyard. (To Be Continued.) BURIAL OF CROWN JEWELS. Scottish Treasure That Was Hidden Beneath Pulpit of Parish Church. The curious story of the search among tombstones for the stolen re- galia revealed in the minutes of evi- dence heard by the viceregal commis- sion on the loss of the Dublin castle jewels recalls the interesting fact that the Scottish crown jewels, which mys- teriously disappeared at the time of the Cromwellian invasion, were bur- ied for safety. They were located in Dunottar castle, which was besieged by Cromwell, and on the eve of sur- render Lady Ogilvie, wife of the com- mander of the beleaguered force, man- aged to elude the besiegers and get the jewels out of the castle. They were buried beneath the pul- pit in the parish church, and the place where they were hidden was never revealed till the restoration. Ogilvie was rewarded with a baronetcy, and Keith, who misled the Cromwellians by stating that they were in the pos- session of the exiled Charles Il. was made an earl. The mysterious disappearance of the Dublin state jewels has had one cu- rious parallel. Some years ago a cas- ket containing jewels of the value of £13,000 disappeared under circum: stances of the greatest mystery from the house of the duchess of Leinster in Dominic street, Dublin. In spite of the most thorough investigation no trace of the thieves could be discov- ered, although rumor suggested that more than one person of rank could throw light on the robbery. The jewels were ultimately returned to their noble owner, but to this day we believe the mystery of their disap- pearance remains unsolved. Men will be honest with one anuth- er when they are honest with them- selves, SILAS K. “The Shadow Between” = BY —— HOCKING. CHAPTER Ii!.—(Continued). He was quite out of breath and al- most drenched to the skin when he reached the rim of St. Chloe bay and saw below him several tiny points of light. He paused for a moment, and the sound of voices fell distinctly on his ear. It was a steep descent, and decidedly dangerous on so dark a night. -But in a moment of such su- preme suspense peril was not thought of. He lost his lantern before he reach- ed the bottom and came near break- ing his neck more than once, but he had no time to worry about himself. He could have found a much easier path if he had made a detour through the village, but he was too impatient to brook any delay. The dwellers along the coast knew by painful ex- perience what it meant for a vessel to be caught by the Beetles, and he was anxious to be on the spot as quickly as possible if haply he might be able to render assistance. He found himself at length in the center of a little crowd of men, wom- en and children. All St. Chloe ap- peared to have emptied itself in the bay. No one, however, knew exactly what had happened. That a vessel had gone on the Beetles there was no doubt. For a while rockets had been fired, and those earliest on the scene had heard voices faint and indistinct, but the fog-had been so thick that it had been impossible to see twenty yards away. Fortunately the rain was thinning the fog a little. He came across the curate at length, standing knee deep in water. “Can you make anything out, Gray- ton?” he asked, excitedly. “I think they must have taken to the boats,” was the answer. “I heard voices distinctly a little while ago, and we raised a shout here in re- sponse.” “But you have seen nothing?” “Nothing at all. Our men are out in the lifeboat. But I fancy the ship’s | boats must be keeping out to sea to avoid the rocks.” “If the fog will only lift,” Clement said, regretfully. “It is lifting a little. our men shouting.” The next moment a loud and united “Ahoy!” rang out across the water from the shore. “Hold your lanterns as high as pos- sible,” shouted the curate. A few minutes later another call came from the sea. It soon became evident that the lifeboat was return- ing, and all the lanterns were center- ed at one point. It was a perilous landing place at the best of times. The foreshore was spiked with innumerable rocks, the passages between were narrow and treacherous. A yard to the right or left might mean certain destruction. Clement waded into the water by the side of Grayton and strained his eyes through the murk and spray for the first sign of the returning boat. Fortunately in the matter of sea there was nothing worse than a ground swell; but that was bad enough on such a muggy night. It needed care- ful handling to bring a boat safely through. Suddenly the fog drifted away like magis, the Lizard flashed on its rocky eminehce, dark specks on the water proclaimed the existence of boats, and a shout from the shore floated out over the water like a bugle call. In a moment or two the white prow of the lifeboat was seen in the. dis- tance; she came up the narrow chan- nel like a flash, and fifty resolute men and women rushed forward to render assistance to the dozen half-drowned people on board. “Their boat was wrecked,” the coxswain explained, “and we picked ’em up. Some of ’em were clinging to the rocks, others floating about. I fear we haven’t got all of ’em. But other boats are coming.” The next boat claimed attention. She came safely through, and her pas- sengers were soon hurried away to the village. The third boat was caught by a rock and overturned, and a moment of the wildest excitement followed. Clement and Grayton threw off their outer clothing and plunged into deep water, and for what seemed an age they fought the hungry sea and rescued one after another from the jaws of death. It was long after midnight before all the watchers left the shore, by which time nearly every house within a radius of a couple of miles was shel- tering one or more of the passengers and crew of the ill-fated ship. But how many had perished no one knew. Hark! that’s CHAPTER IV. A Generous Impulse. Of those immersed by the capsizing of the boat Marion West was the last to be rescued, and as most of the houses in St. Chloe were now full, Clement insisted that she should be taken on to Mawgan Chase. He felt peculiarly interested in the case. ‘When the boat capsized she managed to get one arm round a sharp point of rock, and with her disengaged hand she seized the dress of one of her fel- low passengers and kept her head above water. “Save the others!” she called to Clement and Grayton when they came to her rescue. “I can hold on for a long time yet.” The tide was steadily rising and her position became increasingly perilous, but she appeared to give no thought whatever to her own fate. Her companion, after some consid- erable difficulty, was dragged to a place of safety, and she was left alone, with the black, treacherous waters breaking and foaming all about her. She could see the dark cliffs that encircled the bay, the twinkling lights dancing hither and thither, and above the surge and break of the sea she could hear the voices of men and women, and even the shrill voices of children. For a moment or two she feared she had missed her chance. Her strength was ebbing out rapidly; her bruised and tortured limbs made her sick and giddy. She knew she could not hold on many moments long- er. Then a face appeared above the sur- face of the water; a firm hand grasp- ed her dress. She let herself go, and the dark waters closed once more above her head, but only for a mo- ment. It seemed to her that a dozen strong hands grasped her. She was literally hauled through the foam; then she felt herself carried over rock and shingle, and for awhile conscious- ness left her, When she came to herself she was lying in a cart half full of clean, warm straw. The jolting hurt her consid- erably, but she did not mind. She was out of the cruel icy water, and was being taken care of. The straw smelt deliciously fragrant, and the air felt as warm as summer. She listen- ed, but the only sounds that fell on her ear were the click of horses’ hoofs and the gritting of the wheels along the rutty road. She did not attempt to move. She was inexpressibly tired; besides, she was acutely conscious that the least movement meant pain. She was glad in a half-awake way that the horse moved so slowly. If it would only stand still she would fall asleep, and she wanted to sleep so very much; her eyelids seemed weighted with lead. She fancied she heard vices a little later, but she was not quite sure. All sounds seemed muffled and far way. Was the horse still moving, or was she in somebody’s arms? She did not know, and she was really too tired and sleepy to care. What followed left a very confused impression on her mind, but when she awoke next morning and saw a sweet, girlish face bending over her a good deal of it came back, as one some- times recalls a dream. “Oh, you are good to me!” she said, feebly. “This is lovelier than a ship's cabin. Won't you tell me where I am?” “All in good time,” was the smiling answer. “You must be content for the present to know you are among friends.” “T shall never doubt that,” was the whispered reply; “but do you know if all were saved?” “It is not known yet. We all hope for the best. Now I will go and get you something nice,” and without waiting to be asked any more ques- tions Esther Mawgan stole silently out of the room. A few minutes later a servant girl came in and replenished the fire, drew back the window curtains, and raised the blinds. Marion watched her with the keenest interest but did not at- ; tempt to speak, neither did she make any movement. She was not in very much pain at the moment, but she was conscious that if she attempted to move she would suffer acutely. The girl came and stood by her bed- side at length and looked at her. “I hopes as how you are feelin’ better, mum,” she said, after a considerable pause. “Yes, I think so,” Marion replied, with a smile; “but I have hardly had time to consider the matter yet.” x “You’ve ’ah a terrible narrow squeak, the master says.” “Yes.” “But he allows you're a real plucky one.” > “Oh!” “Wouldn’t be took hoff, he says, while there was a chance of savin’ the others.” Marion’s face flushed. Then she asked, abruptly, “Who is your mas- ter?” “Oh, he’s the squire. The Mawgans ’ave lived here for two hundred years an’ more.” “What very old people they must be!” Eliza did not see the joke and an- swered, quite seriously: “Old, did ’ee say? Why bless ’ee, the squire bain’t more than thirty or thirty-wan at the outside. As for Miss Esther, she ain’t only twenty-two. The missus is fairly old, if you like; she’s turned sixty. “Was that Miss Esther who was here just now?” “Ayef that’s ’er. Purty, ain’t she? And as sweet as they make ’em. Be- tween you an’ me an’ the bedpost ” And Eliza stole on tiptoe to the door, peeped out on the landing, came back and closed the door softly, then store up again to the bedside. “As I was a-sayin’,” she continued, “between me and the bedpost and you, I believe the curate’s fair——” “Oh, please,’ Marion interrupted. “You should not attempt to tell me any of the family secrets. I am only a stranger, you know.” Eliza blushed and looked a little confused. “Believe me, mum,” she protested, “I wouldn’t tell a secret for the world. Besides, a curate with only 60 pounds a year don’t stand no chance at all.” And with this deliver- ance she bustled out of the room. Marion began to take stock of her surroundings. The bed in which she lay was an ancient four-poster, with damask curtains looped up at each corner. The wardrobe was squarely built and devoid of all ornament. The rest of the furniture conformed to type. She could not see the carpet, and beyond the foot of the bed was a tract of country which her eyes could not explore. To her it seemed a handsome, even magnificent, room, and awoke mem- ories of years ago, when she and her father lived in comfort in big cities. Contrasted with the rough, log-built house they occupied in Odero it was a regal apartment, almost worthy of royalty itself. Esther came back again after awhile, bringing a dainty breakfast of tea and toast and a boiled egg. Mari- on made an effort to sit up, but quick- ly lay down again with a hardly-sup- pressed groan. “Ah, don’t try to move again,” Esth- er said, sympathetically. “You must let me feed you. I can doso quite nicely, I assure you.” “I don’t know why it should. hurt me so to move,” Marion faltered, keeping back the tears with difficulty. “J know. You are terribly bruised, and your left arm is badly lacerated. But the doctor feels sure that no bones are broken.” “Has a doctor seen me?” “Why, of course. Don’t you remem. ber him?” Marion shook her head, and a dis- tant look came into her eyes. He was here almost before we got you safely tucked into bed. He'll be round again this morning.” “I am sorry to give you so much trouble,” Marion said, with brimming eyes, and then she made an attempt to eat some of the buttered toast. * * * * * Over the breakfast table the only subject of conversation was the wreck and the stranger upstairs. Clement was curiously interested, but tried his best to hide the fact. He had vow- ed never to be interested in a woman again, barring, of course, his mother and sister. He had learned his lesson and was not likely to forget it. The man who allowed himself to be caught a second time, he declared, was a fool and deserved no sympathy. He had enlarged on this subject more than once -before his mother and sister. They knew of his experience, and had come to regard him as a confirmed bachelor, if not a confirmed woman- hater. He had acted on a sudden impulse the previous evening. Marion’s pluck and generosity had impressed him. She was no whimpering and hysterical female. She had a steady nerve and faced the situation bravely and reso- lutely. She was content to see all the others cared for before she received attention. It was possible room might have been found for her in the village. Perhaps, all things considered, he had acted on a too hasty impulse. He had thought a good deal about the matter during the night. When she was laid dripping and unconscious before the dining room fire he had been able to get a good look at her face, and the face had haunted him more or less during the night. (To Be Continued.) A TREE ON A TOWER. It Is the Last of a Grove of Four on the Same Perch. A tree growing on the top of the 110- foot tower of the court house at Greensburg, Ind., is a curiosity which is said by a writer in St. Nicholas to have no duplicate in the world. There were formerly four trees, but when the court house was remodeled in 1887 the largest tree, then about fifteen feet high, was removed, as its size was thought to render the tower unsafe. Two others on the South side per- ished from the intense heat. The tree left is found at the northwest corner of the tower, where the reflection of the heat of the tower is not so intense as at the point where the two others died. As there is a grove of soft maples growing in the court house yard, the grove on the tower is supposed to have been started by the wind blowing the winged maple seeds into the crev- ices where, catching root in the sedi- ments of dust and watered by the rain, they sprouted. The trees were first noticed sprout- ing more than thirty years ago. A recent examinations of the tower shows no damage done by the spread- ing and growth of the roots. This tree is about fifteen feet in height and three inches in diameter. It was found that the trees were nourished by a layer of growth a few feet below; where the roots emerge. ‘A large crack on the south side of the tower where one of the trees was removed is noticeable from the ground. Because of the lone tree, Greensburg is sometimes known as the “Lone Tree City.” Even if a man doesn’t make any at tempt to flirt with a pretty girl on a Street car she suspects that he’d like ta