The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 13, 1903, Page 4

ante-dungeon to the wine cellar. Here 1 thought we might be safe for the moment, but not so m,\'”la;!‘,\-, N ing Dick to help her—in al he fiel d that she called to k and not to me—she unlocked and opened the door to the wine vault, and in a trice we two and the luckless horses darkness with the s hind us, the bolt shot in the key withdrawn, as we the spot of light which came the keyhole. And while we sat and talked the long even and _a storm could determine, than by the muffled which, since we ng nor hear the he booming of could see by through day w on to came on, a though no othe rolling of the inder incture a most hough we gha suddenly to 1 the whe llar with i vivid glare. Good Lord!” says Richard, clapping nds to his eyes; “where did that a loss for a moment. there was, or . 4 narrow, arther end of beneath that at south room to spy upon the night of Captain to lek k's head at ring of the w should be swed me the opening, and knowing beneath the ng but the light- he demanded, when m leave. pper clapping time for riddles; what mean shall have a file of 1S as soon as ever = hat we m veins sw an hang me whe ! thrust I am too more—not ped me on the t his love for me ad said somet time of t nset, we rew" so great that we both like frightened children, when the key was thrust into the lock s ack But when the heavy door, gave inward, t the yushing of a weak or timid » saw our dear lad in gloom of t dungeon, and trembling with excite- ted nted; “come quickly— to spare. The : he will be here " she p not seen are both here?” had one hand on her heart to still imultuous other Colonel give the order. ant Tybee is to take a file of his grace the find hiding in the wine cel- were his very words. Oh, never stir?” ard gave a low whistle. Tybee has come alive in good to square the old account with u: would say: but my wonder was gre: the other head. “Your fath: “And he sent you to save me d. “Are you not once ptain Ireton?” Then her foot, and though the of the poorest, I could “Will u squander she ailed. “Give me that sword you are behind you and I will keep the hile you snirit Dick away. He is t to be in this.” She gave me the weapon, though not, ny co a willed me by my fa Sharp as the crisis was., 1 make no doubt I should have asked her then and ow she came by the blade I had n when my Lord Cornwallis tried k it over his knee; but the march vents suddenly became too swift for 1 was a sound of cautious foot- the inclined passage leading from the butler's pantry above, and our chance for escape that way was gone. “Too late!” said Dick; and with an arm argery he whipped behind the oaken door opened back against the cellar wall, whispering me to follow. We were scarce in hiding, with the door well drawn back to screen us, when the cautious footsteps came slowly into the out-cellar. Peeping through the crack behind the door we saw Pengarvin —alone. What brought him there without his tale of armed men at his back no man will ever know; but since his ways were always crooked and devious, I guessed he would not wish to appear in the mat- ter in his own proper person, and yet could not deny himself a ‘forehand peep to see if the trap were still safe shut and_secure. *Twas evident he was much disconcert- ed at finding the door open and the wine vault apparently empty. At first he would start and dodge as if to run away; then his rage got the better of his cau- tion and he had one of those senseless cursing fits I have told before you of, raving and swearing and promising all manner of flendish recompense to Mis- tress Margery when he should have her in his power. A little longer dwelling upon this va- riation of the cursing theme—ravings in which Dick learned for the first time of the factor's design to marry my widow and the estate—and I do think the lad would have gone out to make him sing another tune. But now the factor left off suddenly to cock his ear and listen, and afterward to come tiptoeing into the cellar, all eyes to spy and legs to run if a mouse should but squeak at him. The candle was burning brightly now and he crept catlike around the cask to peer into the bin beyond it. Just then fell opew’ with a shrill creaking of its the shutter to the little window of espial rusty hinges, and a blue glare of light- ning came to prick out every nook and Call-"~ corner of the cellar. Being almost with- in a blade's length of the factor, I saw him plainly; saw him start back and put his hands to his face and drop down all of a tremble on the bin's edge, where 1 had been sitting when he discovered me. To second the flash of a prolonged drum roll of thunder upon the still air of the vault, and mingled with the thun- der came other flashes, searing the eye and making the candle flame appear as a sh'kl{ orange halo in the blue-white glare. What with the play of the storm artillery we could neither see nor hear for the moment, but when the candle- light came to its own again the scene had changed as if my magic. Under cover of the thunder din a squad of dragoons had come to ring the factor in where he sat upon the edge of the wine bi “So-ho!”" sald my good friend Tybee, with a little strident laugh, “’tis you I am to take out and hang, is it, aster Lawyer? 1 thought mayhap you'd dou- ble on your track once too often, and so it seems you have. Up with you and come along.” “Oh, 'tis all a mistake, my good sir—a devil's own tra 1—I am not the man; 1 pledge you my sacred word! I—hands off, you cursed villains, or I'll have the law on you!" this last when one of the men cast the noose of a rope over his head while a second drew his arms to his sides in the looping of another cord. “By God! you shall all smart for this; all, I say! Take me to Colonel Tarleton. The King has no stancher friend in all the province than I. Why, damme, 'twas 1 who—" A wrooper came behind him and gadded him with the loose end of the rope, and Tybee held the candle to light the knot- ting of it. And so they marched him out, with Tybee muttering between his teeth that it was rat-catcher's work, and no soldier's, this killing of vermin, and bidding his .men make haste. CHAPTER L. L HOW RICHARD COVERDALE'S DEB! WAS PAID. For some breathiess moments after we three were left alone in the Stygian darkress of the wine cellar no wora was spoken. The rolling of the thunder drum was muffied now, as it were booming out the dirge of the man who had digged a pit and had fallen therein, and the light- ning flashes coming at longer intervals served but to intensify the gloom they lit up for the instant. It w a minced oath from Richard that first broke the spell that bound us. Twas too much for Madge,” said he, he has falnted. Swing the door and light another candle. 1 did both as quickly as might be, and we bedded her on the floor, stripping our coats to soften the stone flagging for her and trying by all the means known to two unskilled soldier leeches to bring her to. “Water!” said Dick, but when we had laved her face with that and with wine as well, without effect, we were all dis- mayed, 1 do assure you. For all our efforts’ she lay as one dead, and neither of us could be cold enough to pry her lips apart to play the drenching doctor with the wine. “Lora:" ciwd Dick, the sweat standing out upon his face in great drops; ‘this is terrible! What shall we do?” ‘Jeanne will know what to do,” serted. “We must get her out of and up to her chamber.” Richard started to his feet and stopped to gather the dear body of her in’ his arms. But in the act he paused and straightened himself to look fixedly at 1 as- this take her, Jack; she is—she is— your * “Nay, aid I, drawing back. “You are her own true lover, and could she choose her bearer—"' “A murrain_on your finickings!” he burst out. “She may die while we are haggling over the right to help her. Take her up quick, man, and begone! ut bethink you, D! vou are taken, you have ome chance in ten of faring as an officer and a prisoner of war. For me 'tis a spy's death as swift as they can drag ¥me to it.” Now you will know, my dears, how much I loved these two when I could twist a cord of such mean fiber to bind them closer together. Richard's eyes Aashed and his lip curled ‘Overlook it in me, if you can,” he said, with fine scorn. “I had not thought upon the peril of it.”” And with that he took her in his arms as she had been a child to be carried and I swung the door for him. But on the threshold he gave me back my sorry little sub- terfuge. “Once more. your forgiveness, Jack. I knew well you were but lying to give me precedence. Can you trust me with her?’ 3 “Aye, dear lad; ndw and ever,” said I; and so I pushed him out and closed the door. I made shift to lead the horses through the narrow passage and out by a rear door, giving them a friendly siap to point them toward the stables. I know not how long it was t.at I paced a weary sentry beat up and down the narrow limits of the wine cellar, alone with such thoughts as go to make the sum of that despair which follows hard upon the heels of some climaxing catastrophe. But I do know that, as the hours dragged on leaden- shod, a slow fever of impatience came to dry the blood in my veins: .0 make me hunger and thirst for leave to say the final word to Father Matthieu, and s0 to be set at liberty to find the bot- tom of the pit into which a mocking fate had plunged me. Since I had led forth the good horses the great oaken door had stood ajar. So 1 wondered why my visitor made so much ado rattling the key in the lock. Then it came to me suddenly that the noise and delay were meant to give me timely warning: - and at the scent of threatening peril—a - peril [ might cope with and grapple soldierwise —I became a man again. A sweep of my hat sent the sputtering candle flying from its barrel head to the farther corner of the vault and I dropped quickly be- hind @ row of empty wine-butts to await what should befall. Had she been a ghost. Mistress Mar- gery would scarce have startled me more when she swung the door to let me see her. She was gowned in her best; there was a heightened color in her cheek; her eyes were like stars. Truly, I do think I never saw her so beautiful as she appeared at that moment, standing under the massive arch of the doorway with her candle held high to light the inner gloom. “This way, Scipio,” she said, trip- ping ahead of the mulatto to point out the Madeira bin. ‘We shall give my lord and his gentlemen the best the Appleby cellar holds to speed their parting.” Wherewsth she stood aside to wait while he filled h;! basket with the straw-cased bottles. At this I saw why she had come. Lord Cornwallis and his gentlemen were about to take the road and the wine was wanted for the stirrup cup. Trust- ing my fate to .no hand less loyal than her own, she had come herself with Scipio to stand betwixt me and possible discovery. And her word to the serv- ing man was also a word to me to let med know my prisonment was near an end. 1 thought it a most generous thing in her; the last of all her many wifely loyalties; and I would have given much for leave to stand forth and tell her 80. .Indeed, when the mulatto had poised his basket upon his head and vanished, and she was lingering to take a last look around before she followed him, T was upon the point of speaking. But while I hesitated I saw her staft _back with a little cry of terror. Standing in the arched doorway through which the mulatto had now passed was a man cloaked, hatted, booted and spur- red as for the road. At her cry he doffed his hat and . . . My dears, I shall never be able to draw for you the hideous death-mask the man was wearing for a face. Seamed and scarred, shriveled and livid in pur- ple and crimson welts, you would think a nine-thronged whip of fire had THE SUNDAY CALL. scourged out every semblance of come- liness, leaving only the skeleton frame on which to -ng this_ghastly carica- ture of a human face. Fearing him not at all, I could scarce forbear a shudder at the sight of this walking death-mask of the libertine, Sir Francis Falconnet. And if his face were terrifying in re- pose, 'twas fair demonfac when he laughed. “Ha!” he said, bowing again in the mockery of politeness, “You are sur- prised, Mistress Margery; you heard my lord's order and thought I would be now some miles on the road to Sal- isbury?” “If you were the loyal soldier you should be, sir,” she said, drawing her- self up proudiy, “you would be at the head of your troop, as his Lordship di- rected.” And then, with a gesture that was most queenly: “Stand aside, Sir— Libertine, and let me pass.” His answer was another mocking laugh, and he stepped within to close the door and lock it. When he turnéd to front her agflin his face was the face of a tormented devil. ‘“By God! you think too lightly of me, Mistress Margery. Before ever this day dawned I owed you much, but like a spiteful little hellicat you must needs add to the score by making me a target for your wit at the supper table. 'Twul cost a life to more than one of them who laughed with you, my lady, but 'twill cost you dearer still.” He came nearer as he spoke, thrusting that horrible face farther into the circle of candle light, but she would not draw back nor flinch a hair, and I marked that the hand that held the candlestick was as steady as a rock. But when he made an end she flung a quick glance over her shoulder and my heart leaped for joy. For then I knew she was léan- ing ‘upon me. “Once more, Captain Falconnet, will you let me pass?’ she said. “No!" he snarled, adding a horrid blasphemy. “/Twas passion in me once, and I am none so sure there was not a time when you could have cooled it into love. But now 'tis hatred and reveng: He snapped his fingers in her face. “Th thing tney’ll find here in the morning—" He fell Tace downward at her feet and I set my heel in the small of his back to hold him while I could drive the point of the Ferara between his ribs. But my dear lady would not have it so. ““No, no! for the love of heaven, not that, Monsieur John!” she cried, and for the moment her fine courage was all swallowed up of pity and she became a mmpusslonme woman pleading for a e. But now my blood was up. “You are my wife,” I said, coldly. “If he had a dozen uves I should take them all for that which he said to you.” “But not that way—oh, not that way, I do beseech you!' she beggea. “Think of what it will mean to you—and—to me. For your own sake, Monsieur John."” I took my heel from the man's back. “Your wish is law to me, dear lady But your way is clear now; you may el She took a step toward the door. “You will not kill him when I am gone, Monsieur John?” “By the name he bears he was doubt- less born a gentleman; since you wish it he shall dle like one.” I gaw she did not take my meaning; that when she was gone I should let him have his chance to die sword in hand. ‘‘Remember, 1 have your promise,” she said, turning to go. “The army is on the march for Salisbury, and in a little whie your friends will be here to—" The sentence ended in a very womanly shriek of terror. Watching his chance, my dastard enemy had bounced to his feet’ to make a quick lunge, not at me, but at her. Of course I came between to parry the murderous thrust, and after that it was life for one of us and death for the other. I looked to see my lady run, shrieking; indeed, I called to her to go, but she stood fast as if her terror had frozen her, and it was her candle that lighted the grim vault for the duel.- As you will know full well, I was not minded to give this thrice-accursed nend more than the gentleman's chance I had promised to give him. But now, as iwice before, he fought most desperately, trying by every trick of fence to come between me and the silent little figure holding the candle aloft. As I have often said, he was a pretty swordsman, and at this cri: with life at stake, and all the fury of the seven devils of disap- pointed vengeance to nerve his arm, his sword play was most masterly. Yet twice in his stamping rushes 1 found my opening;once the Ferara's point passed his blade, and but for the ringed guard of the German longsword that stopped it when his parry failed the steel would have passed through him. After this he grew warier, having in mind, as I supposed, that my wrist and amm dould outweary his. Yet his'savage onset never flagged for an instant, and when the light fell upon his hideous face 1 could see the flerce eyes glinting like a basilisk’s, wish no sign in them that my time was come to press him home. None the less, I did press him, inch by inch, driving him at .each new clasn of the steel a little deeper into the gloom that crowded close upon the narrow cir- cle of candle light. He saw my object— to push him to unfamiliar ground where he might trip and stumble in the dark- ness—and he strove furiously to defeat it. Yet he had no choice, and presently I had him among the empty winebutts, foining and patrying for his life and pouring out such blasphemies as would make your blood run cold. Here the end came quickly. Being en- tangled among the broached butts he had no room to play skilifully. 8o pres- ently it chanced that he caught his point in the chine of a cask and his blade snapped short at the hilt. With a yeil- ing oath, hissing hot from the devil's thumb-book, he snatched up the broken blade to fling and stick it javelin-wise in my shoulder, and then I saw the duil gleam of the candle light on the barrel of a pistol. Had he aimed the pistol at me I trust I should still have given him his gentle- man’s chance. But when I saw him level the weapon at my dear lady N g e they came In one and the same heart- beat; the sword thrust that found his life and took it, the crash of the pistol shot echoing like a clap of thunder in the close vault, and pitchy darkness to draw its curtain over all. I know not how 1 reached ner, pulling the broken sword blade from my shoul- der as 1 ran, nor can I tell you how an upgushing spring of thankfulness choked me when I found her unharmed by the bullet which had snuffed the candle out. She was in a most piteous state, now it was all over, and though I charged it all where I supposed it should belong —to the account of a natural womanly passion to cling to something in her mo- ment of weakness—yet the blood ran quick in my veins when she suffered me to lead her out of that dismal, smoking death pit, she clinging to me the while 80 close that I could feel the warmth of her and thie fluttering of her dear heart beneath my hand. She said no word, nor did I, till we were come above stairs. We found the rooms on the main floor deserted by all save the blacks, who were clearing away.the debris of the feast of leave- taking. In the hall we came upon old Anthony, putting on the chain of the outer door. Here my lady drew apart from me. “Is my Lord gone?”’ she asked. “Yes, Missa. He say tell yo' he gwine tak it mighty hawd yo' no come to gib him de sti'up-cup.” . “And my father “Gone to de lib'ry to wait fo' Massa Pengarbin; yis, Missa.” She turned away, shuddering at this mention of the factor for whose com- ing the master would wait lonq and in vain, and T heard her murmur: “Oh, the horror of this night!” But in a mo- ment she came back to me, and was her cool, calm self again. “For that T am here, alive and well, I thank you, Captain Ireton. Need I say more?” : 1 cannot tell you what was in the words to make me hot with anger, as I had but now been hot with love. But the new wound in my shoulder was bleeding freely, and I would not let her see 1 was hurt; and if aught will stanch a wound 'tis anger. “You need not say so much.” I retorted. bowing low. “You have spoken now and then of certain duties binding upon those who are knotted up, ever so loose- ly, in the marriage bond; I have my part in these as well as you, Mistress Margéry." She bit her lip and was upon the édge of tears. I saw what I had done and wouwld curse the masterless tongue that must needs add its word-thong to the night's whip of scourgings. When she spoke again it was to say: “This is your own house, Captain Ire- ; what will you do?" “Then, by your good leave, 1 shall do what I came to do.” She bent her head in acquiescence. ou will find the—person whom you wish to see in your old room in ‘the north gable. Shall 1 have Anthony light you up?” “No; 1 can find the way.” My hand was on the stair rail when the cruel irony of it struck me like a olow. She had planned the loosing of che bond in the very room where she had knelt to take the good father's bless- ing upon it. I stepped back, stumbled, I should say, for a curious weakness had come upon me, and drew her arm in mine. “We will go together, if you please, my lady. ’'Tis only just to me that you should hear what I must say to Father Matthien. And so, dear heart! she bore with me to the last; and togetner we climbed the stair to come into the upper cor- ridor with the room of destiny at its farther end. We came as far as the door; I mind it perfectly, for I remember marking that the wooden bar my father had put upon it was gone, and the iron brackets as well. But while I was groping for the latch there came a taste of blood in my mouth, and I heard my dear lady's voice as if she were calling to me across the eternal abysses. “Mon- sieur John!—you are hurt!” And then, from a still’ remoter aiswance: “Oh, Father Matthieu—Dick! Come quickly! He is dying CHAPTER LI IN WHICH THE GOOD CAUSE GAINS A CONVERT. ‘You have been terribly near to deaiit. Monsicur John: so near that Docto. Ca- ver s twice given you over.” by ‘there was no fear of I am Lite that man in the old Ger- ‘olk tale whe made a compact witn vil One, selling thereby his chanc> to die. Death would not take me as a gift, Mistress Margery; I have tried him too often. “Hush! jest about. die?” Rather ask why I should choose to iive. But this is beside the mark. You should have let me die, dear lady; but id not, we must e'en make the she said; “’tis an ill thing to Why should you want to d me with a smile that strug- with some dedper feeling of the I knew not what. s a monstrous aoleful alternative, n'est-ce pas? And I must not let you talk at all—'tis Doctor Carew’s order.” So saying, she smoothed the counter- d straightened my pillows; after giving me a great spoonful of so; cordial that first set a pleasant glow in me and afterward made me she took post again in the hol- low of the big chair and was so sitting when I fell asleep. This day's awakening was the first of mainy so nearly of a piece that I lost the count of them; and sleep, deep and dreamless for the better part, stole away the hours till the memory of that inch- by-inch return to health and strength is itself like the memory of of the vaguest of dreams. By times when I awoke it was the bluff Doctor Carew bending over me to dress my wound; at other times it was Margery come to tempt me with a bowl of broth or some other kickshaw from the kitchen. Now and again I awoke to find Scipio or old Anthony standing watch at my bedside; and once—but that was after I was up and In my clothes and able to sit and drowse in the great chair—I opened my eyes to find that my company was the master of the house. He was sitting as I had seen him sit once before, behind a lighted candle at the little table with a parchment spread out under his bony hands. He was mum- bling over the written words of it when I looked, but at my stirring he gave over and sat back in his chair to cross his thin legs and match his long fingers by the ends, and wink and blink at me as though be had but now discovered that he was not alcne. “I give ve good even, Captain Treton,” he said, finally, rasping the greeting out to mo as it had been a curse. “I hope ye've slept well.” I said I had. and thanked him, once for the wish, and again for his coming to see me. [ know not how it was, but if there had been rancor in my former thoughts of him ’'twas something abated n gled heart Y had a nearhand escape this time, sir,” he said, after a longish pause. “One more or less of a good many since we were last met together in this room, Mr. Stair,” T would say. He muttered somethin, to himsel? about the devil taking precious good care of his own, and I laughed. “That is as it may be, but my being here this second time a pensioner on your bounty is by no good will of mine, 1 do assure you, sir.” He sat nodding at me as if I had said a thing to be most heartily agreed io. But_his spoken word belled the nods. “The ways of Providence are inscrut- able—something inscrutable, Captain Ire- ton. 1 make no doubt ye are sufficiently thankfu' for all your mercies.” “Why, as to that, there may be two ways of looking at it. As a soldier, may justly repine at a fate which ties me here when I should be in the field.” “Well sald, sir; bravely said; ’tis the part of a good soldler to be aye wanting to be in the thick o' the fighting. But now that ye're a man of substance, Cap- tain Ireton, yve will be owing other debts to our country than the one ye can pay with a handle o' steel.” “‘Our country,’ did you say, Mr. Stair?” 1 asked, feigning a surprise which no one knowing him could feel in very truth. “And what for no? ’Tis the birthland of some—yourself, for example, and the leal land of adoption for others—your humble servant, to wit. I've taken the solemn Sulh of allegiance to the Con- gress, I'd have ye to know."” At this I must needs laugh outright. “Have you taken it one more time than you have forsworn it, Mr. Stair?” “Laugh and ye will,” he sald, quite placably; “‘ve shall never laugh the peet- riotism out o’ me. 'Tis little enough an old man can do, but the precious cause o’ liberty will never have to ask that lit- tle twice, Captain Ireton.” Since he would ever be on the winning side, this foreshadowed good tidings, in- deed. So I would ask him straight what news there was. “‘Have they not told ye? 'Tis braw news,” he chuckled. “While ye were on your back, General @reene led Lora Cornwallis a fine dance all across the prov—the State, mean, crooking his finger at him and saying, ‘Come on, ye led-captain of a tyrant King, and when I'm ready I'll turn and rend ye.' And by the same token, that is juist- what he dfd the other day at Gullfold Court- house.” “A victory?” I would ask. “Well, not recisely that, maybe; they're calling it a drawn battle. BulL I'm thinking ’tis Lord Cornwallis that's drawn. He's off to Wilmington, they say, and I'm fain to hope we've seen the last o' him.and his reaving redcoats in these parts.’ His words set me in a muse. I could never make out what he would be at, telling me all this. But he had an ob- Ject, weli-detined, and presently it snowed its head, “Ye're the laird o’ the manor now, Cap- tain Ireton, with none to gainsay vye,’ he went on. “‘So I've come to give ye an account o' my stewardship. I made no doubt, ail along, ye'd come back to your own when ye'd had your fling wi’ the Old Worldies, and so I've kept tab o' the poor bit land for ye."” “Oh. you have?' said I, being so far out-brazened as to be incapable of saying more. I have that—every plack and bawbee. is ten years come Michaelmas since [ took over the charge o' Appleby Hun- dred, and I'm ready to account to ye for every season's crop—when ye'll pay down the bit steward's fee. “Truly,” said I, ‘“you are an honest man, Mr. Stair.”” Then, to humor him to the top of his bent: ‘‘Haphazarding a guess, now, would this accounting leave a balance in my favor or in yours? He gave me a look like that of a cos- termonger weighing and measuring the gullibility of his customer. “‘Oh, aye, I'm no saying there might- n't be a’ bit siller coming to me; a few hundred pounds, more or less—sterling, man, sterling; not Scots,” he added has< tly.” And then as if it were best to leave this nail as it was driven, he changed the subject abruptly. “I've brought that iast will and testament ye signed,” handing me the parchment. *“No doubt you'll let it stand, but when the bairns come ve'll want to be adding a codicil or two.”" Leaving the matter of the estate, 1 thought it high time to cut to the mar- row of the bigger bone. So I-said: “Let us be frank with each other in this, Mr. Stair. How much has your daughter told you of the matter between us?” “‘She’s a jade!” he rasped, lasping for a moment into his real self. But he recov- ered his self-control instantly. ““Ye'd no expect a romantic bit lagsie wi' French blood in her veins to be confidencing wi' her old dried-up wisp of a father, no would ye? She’s no tell't me everything, 1 daresay. “Then I will tell you the plain truth of it." I said. *“This marriage was never anything more than the form we agreed it should be at the time; a_makeshift to serve a purpose. If you think I wouid hold you daughter to it—" “‘Hut, tut, man! what will ye be haver- ing about! Ye'll never cast the poor bit lassie off that way! Ye canna, if ye would; her church will have a word to say to that.” For all his aping the manner of the ignored father, I shrewdly suspected that he knew more about the ins and outs of our affair than he owned to. Neverthe- less, I was forced to meet him on his own ground. ““There is no ‘casting off' about it, Mr. Stair, and as to the church, tnere is good ground for an appeal to Rome. The marriage as it stands is little more than a formal betrothal, as you well know, soundly enough legally to make Mistress Margery my heir-at-law, mayhap, but still "lacking everything of— He could not wait to let me finish. “Lacking d've say?’ he rapped wrathfully. “And whose fault is that, ve cold-blooded stick? Tell me this; did e ye neck and heels into your bedroom? And how do you ? I'm to suppose ye quarrel wi' her like the dour-faced imp o’ Sawtan that ve are, and presently ye come rag- ing out, swearing most shamefully at a man old enough to be your father!" “Twas far enough in the retrospect now <o that 1 could smile at it. Yet I would not suffer him to bluster me aside. “It was an ill thing for you to do, none the less, Mr. Stair; the more so as you must have known that Mistress Mar- gery’s faith was piighted to Richard Jennifer long before all this came to id I know it?¥ he shrilled. “That lang-legged jackanapes of a Dickie Jen- nifer? "Light o' love! Jade that she is, ;‘r‘u- never cared the snap of a finger for m. “You are talking far enough beside the mark now,” [ retorted. “Your daughter loves Richard Jennifer well and truly, and with this entanglement brushed aside she will marry him when he comes back from the wars.” “She will, ye say? And what will be- come o' the braw acres of Appleby that gait, I'd like to know? But ye're daft, man, clean daft. Didn't T spier her giv- ing him his quittance once for all that night when he rode away after they had pitten ye to bed? She téll't him flat she loved anither man.” “Another man?’ I echoed. “I—explain vovecelf, i vou please, Mr. Stalr. What other man—" vwas at the door by this, and he broke out upon me in such a blast of cursing as T hope never to hear from the lips of .such an old man again. ‘“Ye cold-blooded, crusty deevil!” he quavered, when all his breath was spent upon the bigger malisons. “Has it never come intil your thick numskull that the poor fule lassie is sick wi’ love for ye, ye dour-faced loon And with that he let himself out and slammed the door behind him, and I heard him go pottering down the corri- dor, still cursing me by all the choice phrases he could lay tongue to. CHAPTER LIL WHICH BRINGS US TO THE JOUR- NEY'S END. out, I was pondering thoughtfully on this. giving the pinching old man credit for any and every motive save that which he had so cursingly avowed, to wit. the furthering of his daughter's happiness. when there came a tap at the door and Mistress Margery entered. “Dear heart! Do they limit you to a single candle when my back Iis turned?” she said, in mock pity; and saying it. went to light the candles in the mantel sconces. The sight of her standing a-tiptoe to touch off the candles on the chimney breast set the old love spell to make my heart beat faster. Whaat if there were a hint of truth in Gilbert Stair's wrathful protest. What if, after all, she (‘nrgd less for Richard and more for me? Do not. I pray you. my dears, -think too hardly of the man who thus lays bare the secret thoughts of his heart for you. 'Twas but a passing gust of the tempest of disloyalty, and I was not swept wholly from my moorings. Nay, when she came to sit on the hassock at my feet, as she used to do in that other halcyon-time of convalencence, I was my8elf again and could look upon .her sweet face with eyes thar saw beyond her to the camp or battle-field where my dear lad was spending himself. For a time we sat in silence, 'twas she who spoke first. “My father has been with you,” she ?‘?ld. “I hope you did not quarrel with “No,”” I denied, salving my conscience with the remembering that it takes two to make a quarrel; and that I had done none of the cursing. “He came to give me this,” [ added handing her the will. She opened the folded parchment, reading a line of it here und there soft- ly to herself. —* ‘Being of sound mind, doth be- aueath and devise to his loving wife, rgery— Ah, had you been writing it you would not have written it so, would you, Monsieur John?" “’Tis but a form,” I would say. “All wives are ‘loving’ in lawyers’ speech.” She smiled at me so like an inhocent and fearless child that for the moment I could figure her no otherwise. Yet her rejoinder was a woman's, i y you would not have written is not that the truth?” would not let her pin me down. “If 1 should write it now it should be written in great letters, dear lady. Though it is but a form, though that which followed was but another form, g)u have not failed In any wifely dut. istress Margery.” and it so; YO “No, not once. Three times you have done what the lovingest wife could do to save a husband's tife; and I do greatly suspect there was a fourth and earlier time. Tell me, little one, was it not you who sent the Indian to Cap- fain Forney to tell him a natriot spy was to be executed at day dawn in the oak glade?" She did not answer me direct. Twas I who brought you to that pass,” she said, speaking soft and low “But for my riding down upon you one other morning in that same oak glade you would not have had Sir Francis Falconnet's sword in your shoulder. And but for that sword wound nothing tnat followed would have followed." Saying this she fell silent for a space, and when she spoke again she was be- come by some subtle transmutation my trusting little maid of the bygone hai- cyon time. “Do you remember how you used to make a comrade of me in the old da Monsieur John, telling me things m: elder bro ight have told me, had I had one I said I remembered; likely to forget. “Are you strong enough to stand In that elder brother's place again to- night?” “Try me and see, dear lady.” t while you say ‘dear lady. pouted Twas ‘Margery’ and sieur John' a year agone.” “Have it as you will; I will even call you ‘Madge’ if it pleases you bet- ter. that I was not " she “Mon- ‘No,” she said; “that is Dick's name for me; and—and it is of Dick that I would speak. You love him well, do you not, Monsieur John?" I said I could never make her, or other woman, fully understand the was between us. There was the merest flavor of playful sarcasm In the uptilt of the word, but it was gone when she went on. “Being so good a friend to Dick, then, you can advice me better. Tell me, if you please, must [ marry him—when— When you are free to do it?” I fin- ished for her. “Why should you not, my dear?” She was pulling the threads from the lace edging of her kerchief and would not for a king's ransom let her eyes meet mine. “You used to say—in that other time— that love should go before a marriage did you not? Or do I remember badly “You remember well. I said it thenm, and I say it again at this present. But Dick loves you well and truly, sweet- heart; and you—" She looked up quickly with the little laugh that used to remind me of happy children at play. “And I?7—now you will read a_wo- man's heart for me, Monsieur John. Tell me; do I love him as his mistress should?” Nay, surely,” said 1, gravely, for somehow her laugh jarred upon ‘me, “surely that is for you to say. But you have said it, long since.” “Have 1?” she queried, with an arch lifting of the penciled brows that c: straight from her French mother. “May- ou overheard me say it, Monsieur resdropper?” God help me, said 1 All in a flash her laughing mood was gone and she stood before me like an ac- ing goddess. ou teld me once the past was like a dream to you; you must have dreamed that part of it, sir. And yet you said a little while ago that I had not failed in any wifely duty! he time and circumstance were their own best excuse. Sure I am far from blaming you, my dear. But let it pass, ‘tis enough t I know you love him as he loves you. Again her mood changed in the twink- litig of an eye. She sank down upon the hassock, laughing merrily. “O wise Monsieur John! how well you read a woman's heart! 'Tis you should be the lover instead of Dick. He rides a-courting as he would a legion on a battle fleld. But nothing would ever tempt you to be so masterful rough, would it, Monsieur John? You would look deep into vour sweetheart's eyes and say—Tell me what you would say, mop ami? Ah, my dears, I hope no one of you will ever be tempted as I was tempted then. I forgot my dear lad, forgot honor, forgot everything save that I had leave to tell her how I had loved her from the first; how I should go on loving her to the end. So for a moment I hung trembling on the brink; and then she pushed me over. s “Is this how you would do, Monsieur— Monsieur Ogre?—sit stock still and glower at the poor thing as if you were between two minds as to loving her or eating her?” I bent quickly, took her face between my hands and kissed her twice—thrice. “That is what I should do. Now that you have made me what I was not be- fore, are yqu satisfied?” ‘Twas long before she gave me a word. And when she spoke it was only to say: ““Are you not monstrous ashamed, Mon- sieur John?" “No!" sald I. “I am but a man, and you have roused that part of me that knows neither shame nor remorse. I love you, Mistress Margery; do you hear? I ave loved you since that day in June when I came back from death’s door to find you sitting here to bear me com- any little one—so I did,” pany. She locked her fingers across her knee and would not look at me. “But by your own showing you should be ashamed, sir,” she insisted. “What of the dear friend to whom you would give up even the love of your mistress?" ““You may flay me as you will: I shall neither flinch nor go back from my word. You are mine, and I shall give you up to no man. I know I have not your love— shall never have it. Also, I know that I have gained an enemy where once I had a loving friend. Richard Jennifer may kill me if he please—he shall have the chance to do it, but you are mine and =hall be while I live to claim and hold you.” ‘Fhere was something less than anger in the blue-gray eyes when she let me see them: nay, I could have sworn there was a flash of playful mockery in them when she sald: ‘“‘Dear heart! how masterful rough you have grown, all in a moment, my lord.” And then the beautiful eyes filled and she said, “Poor Dick!” in a way to make me suffer all the torments of that old myth-king who could never quaff the water that was ever rising to his lips. ‘“Aye, you may love him, if you must and will,” I gloomed. “God pity me! I know you do love him." She looked up quickly. “So you have said a’ dozen times before. Tell me, Mon- sleur Oracle, how do you know it?” “If 1 tell you, you will hate me more than you do now.” “That would be hard, indeed.” she murmured. “Yet I would hear you say “Listen, then: once, when we three were at the very door and threshold of death, you wrote the cry of your heart out on a bit of paper for a leave-taking and sent it to the man you loved. You said, “Though you must needs believe my life 'is pledged to your dear friend and mine, 'tis yours, and yours alone.’ Were not these your very words?" Her “ves” was but the lightest whisper, but I heard it and went on. “That is all, save this; the Indlan bearer of your let- ter blundered and gave it me instead of gt She looked me full in the eyes and my soul went all afire. Then she laid her cheek against my knee and I heard her dear voice as it had been a chime of sweet-toned -bells: ““Ah, Monsieur John, how blind this thing called love can make us all. Sup- pose—suppose the Indian did not blunder, dear lord and master of me?" THE END. )