Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 33, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 August 1896 — A LOYAL LOVE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A LOYAL LOVE

BY J. BERWICK HARWOOD.

CHAPTER XV. Rnfus Crouch, clad in a coarse white slop suit, like a dock laborer or navvy, and puffing forth smoke from the short and blackened pipe that was his almost Inseparable companion, came striding up the long and narrow valley that led from the sea coast to that hollow in which his unenviable dwelling stood. He walked more swiftly, and more strongly, too, than could have been conjectured of a man of his build. He walked up to a corner of the hut where sundry tools were stacked, selected a crowbar, small, sharp-pointed, and made of as good steel as ever Sheffield sent forth, and, armed with this instrument, and carrying a great petroleum lamp, he approached tht now fireless hearth, on which there lay. cold and dead, the ashes of his fire of peat and wood. Using the strong steel crowbar with considerable skill, Rufus Crouch managed to lift the heavy hearthstone and to away it to one side, giving to view beneath a cavity artfully contrived to serve as a pjace of deposit for articles too precions to be left in some cupboard or other unprotected receptacle in a house so often tenaatless. The hole held only two objects; the one a common jar of baked clay, with a lid, such as in Holland is used for the storage of tobacco, the other a large tin bos, fastened by a padlock. Rufus lifted the lid of the Dutch tobacco jar, and threw a casual glance at the money—gold, silver and copper coins mixed together—that lay below. Then he replaced the cover, and unlocking the padlock with a key which, like that other which he'first employed, was attached to his silver watch chain, he drew forth a number of papers and parchments. From these he separated, a particular deed, and began, for perhapsjthe hundredth time, with grerrfv eyes to study its contents. “Not 'j doubt about it,” he muttered—“all th./f sum of seventy thousand pounds, Con-xfidatod Three--per Gents, with all unclaimed ba'k dividends therefrom ac.cruing, belongs us eerta iety to Violet, only daughter——. flere the l uiely studept.’s , interested commentary on the legal document in his dutch was int( rrupted by a whining cry from the dogs without, a tap at the door, the, lifting of .the latch, and'it was Obadmh Jedson’s towering.figure.that now darkened the uoorway v ■“Hero, Rufus, man!” said the deep, resonant voice of the chptain’ of the jet hunters; ‘‘you must be deuf-ttr busy. I knpeked before, and I gave- the word before I came in However, all’s well; only time is short.” . "What’s up, captain?”..confusedly demanded the occupant, 9f the hut, as he huddled together the law papers thn( lny before him on the untidy table, and looked

askance at newcomer. “I was reading. —a thing I don’t often do,” he continued, with a. constral ued la ugh; ‘poring .over a lot of ojd letters. What stirring, Captain JedsonV'’ , “We ought to be.” answered, pjd Obadlah, 'frowiiingTy! “In digging the foundations sot tne new pier at Daueborough Jet tracts ■hart Web found—very' good, ones, since nine pounds’ weight were picked up by mere-children in -a -couple of hours. 1 have , seen the stuff* mid the place, and.l have been .round to siunmon. the tyds apd.wowep to. muster,At.Paneborough Old Pier at five tomorrow,piorn. In your turn, Rufus, mate, I have come • to- you. I look to you as my lieutenant, in Don’s place.”* . > ~ “Don’s turned gentleman. ain't* he?” sneeringly askro the .confederate. j>f Sir Richard Mortmajy. “A pleasanter trade for him than iet seeking, I guess, and a -safer.” " " ' “Don dragged’you; body and hones, put —'of what would pise have been your ’grave in the Soldiers' Slough, comrade RufdS," -retorted old Obediah. with jracb dignified sternness of rebuke that the ruffian quaib. . before the. severe regard,of the .gaunt Of jet hunter?, .’land. ga.for.taking' a new trade, it U held by all of us along' this coast that my foster-soo is a gentleman b«ne But-J did 1 nofe* <fomt her*? to talk of pur Don., who will-be bock With us one day, but of the, work of the morroW,' mate. I hare ethers to call, who yye far away. Can f count on you,'* Crouch, to make one?” • • i ( “Vos.” sullenly replied Rufus; “yes, I’ll be there—neve- fear me;, Pllihe there.” And so they parted. ‘ -

CHAPTER XVL ~*A rifling, part j-hafl eat,-onti,from the great house enough. The day was fine. Up the tbad leadiii’g toward the high 19095 s Jh“ twnpmg spuadron went,' the merry dotes of blithe talk and the silvery -soitnd Of girlish laughter floating on the summer wind. There were six young ladies, tw6 manned ‘and - thfff’ unmarried* and with them a masculine escort of sufficient strength.. without-inc Ming the grooms, who brought up the rear: Of course, Sir Richard Mortmain' was often beside Violet, but not exclusively gq, for Mrs. Scoresby was exacting, and at times noisily' satirical, and he did’not ‘«i ' yet choose to exhihit jn the character of a declared loygr. j,,,/, Presently, without warning,. & njist swopped down- irons, thg lofty moors, rollIng, in its somber raajesfj, like & turnbpig sea Qvpi thfe purple heather, the gold-blossomed gorsa, and the-paler yellow of the brootmbanks, hiding the bare rocks, the peat mosses, the-scattered farm booses, the fields, every sign and landmark,! as il a oudden deluge had blotted them from the map 6f the county. li are wc to.dp now?*' demanded Mrs. Seoreeby, kradiy. —' ; - * “Oh, rattle along! ft’a all right We •hall manage it ettpltalfy, in spite of the fog,” cheerily Responded Charley Fitzgerald. 'l;* • n i* "1 i , So they rode on, but, as they rounded the nett angle of the ropd it just so happened that a gypsy. tent Was pitched there, a cart standing, a bprse tethered, a •warm of awg-thy urchins buzzing about, and worst of all, a bright, cracking fire burping. Violet. Mowbray's mettlesome gray could not bear the sight, but snort? j ihg, sndimad with fear, it swerved, reared, and taking the tyt-between its teeth, dadbed? Off along the' toad, and- vanished In* the mist -The thing happened so quickly that every One wag taken by survOitfr'hPf! ' I'd&’.hdpfe she can keep her scat nil hFs had’ Mtengh of It,' the brute!” exclaimed kind little Chart*? Fitzgerald of the Hussars, while Lord David Todhnnter, who was far in the tear, bawled ort inquiries as to what had occurred. Sir Richard, whose wits were quicker, had alto been is the roar. He Whmd forward now.

“What’s this?"’ ho cried. “She will be killed.” On they rode, helter-skelter, into the blinding mist, clattering along the hard road, until at last Sir Harker, who knew the country better than the rest, bawled out: "Stop, stop, Mortmain—Lady Padget! we’ve passed the cross-roads, and I’m sure we’re going wrong. I thought I heard a horse faintly to the left.” They all reined up. When silence was re-established, the hoof-strokes of a horse going at a furious gallop could be distinctly heard to the left “That’s it. I thought so. The brute has wheeled into the Thrapmore Road, and is heading back toward his own stable. If the poor girl only keeps her seat —but we ought to ride ” And off they went, even Miss Martin and Miss Leader ceasing to groan at the unwonted eve-lion, on account of Violet's peril. Sir Harker, who anew the country, led the way. But neck-and-neck with him rode Sir Richard Mortmain, better mounted, and ready to dash forward, and by rescuing Miss Mowbray from danger to establish a claim to her gratitude that might forward his mercenary courtship. "What a chance!” he muttered between his white teeth, as he flew swiftly on — “what a stroke of luck! I say, Topham, are you sure we’re on the right road?” “Don’t you hear the rattle of the hoofs?” gruffly retorted Sir Harker, who was a good-natured young fellow in the main. “All I hope is, she won’t meet a cart or a carriage, and that the beast will stick to the road.” On they sped. It is no light matter, the pursuit of a runaway horse, when the life of one whom we have loved or liked is at stake. Vidlet Mowbray had won the good will of almost everybody at Thorsdale, and even hard little Mrs. Seoresby, who was fighting her own upwari] battle so sedulously that she had seldom time to care for the pains and cares of others, was for once sympathetic. The sound of the terrified hoise’s hoofs came to their ears like the ro 1 of distant thunder. They hurried on in n long straggling file, Sir Richard and the Yorkshire baronet leading.

"Thoredale’s near, anyhow!” exclaimed Sir Harker, as he recognized some familiar objects. Sir Richard spurted on. Presently these two, followed by the rest, but at a long interval, reached the Park, reached the gieat court yard, with the block of stabling beyond it The great yard was brigntly lighted now with lanterns and candles hastily brought out. The central point of attraction was a gray horse, specked and wreathed with foani, in n lather of heat, snorting wildly, with distended nostrils, his bridle floating loose, his saddle empty. It was the mottled gray. But wncre was his rider? None of the grooms, helpers, indoor servants who had come harrying out, could answer that question. Where was Violet Mowbray? CHAPTER XVII. The mist on the high moors, like all such mists, horeren nbove the ground like a gray winding sheet, leaving a foot or tw.q of clear air, and rendering it quite possible for n pedestrian, by stooping or kneeling at Intervals, to see liis way tor a few yards, ana to ascertain that he had not .'wandered from the beaten track. iFlew M however, are those, not moordand born ,a.t)d bred, who are fit to cross with safety any considerable waste, such ns 'tlfe’ Yot'kshire Wolds, when once the fog--drtft >ha® set in. Don, who had been an apt pupil of the keepers and herdsmen, must have been one of those exceptional persons, since he held to the beaten path •across the mkor on his way back from some solitary farm.

Wha* was that lying on the gTass by the roadside, quite still? A woman’s forte, dttreiy: lind, as surely, lying there in the*awful quiet <of death! Yes, it was a lady .in a riding habit, her bright silken hair loosened, and streaming over her shoulder as she thus lay. That she was yoiih'g and 'faV to look upon Don eould seej but It was not until he came a step ior two-nearer, aud could recognize the palq upturned face, that the full horror of the discovery rushed upon him. His own heart ceased to beat. He started baite aghast.. Violet—-Violet Mowbray—cold, .flead, forever gone, in the early bloom of her youthful promise, from the world and’from him! With a great sob he fnunbd forward, and kneeling on the grass, lifted th** lifeless forte in his strong .gnus*

, darling, my darling!” he cried out, wildly; “my Violet, my hope, my all!” These was n > response. The fair, helpless young head lay passive on Don’s S&ouldey., lie clasppd the insensible form to his heart and kissed the pale cheek. “Oh, my love, thy 16ve!” exclaimed the young-man; pmskmately; “are you gone from, me, my dearest? I have worshiped ,yoq. f? r , year.? always hoping—against hppe—one day t 6 be worthy of you. and hhw death has robbed me of the thing I loved the best on earth—my Violet, mv angel!" And again he kissed her, while his tears fell fast upon her pallid face. What was that? Surely a sigh. Violet’s lips were • parted, her eyes opened feebly, and she moyed,.as if trying to rise. Half incredulous, in mingled joy and confusion, Dou drew bach. “Can it be?” he asked. “Yes—l—l remember now how it happened,” said Violet, in a 1 weak voice. “Forgive, me--pray, forgive me,” pleaded Don, flushing crimson, and tingling in every pulse with shame and anger against himself, “since I thought I had—lost you. Forget my folly, and forgive!” “There is nothing to forgive, dear friend—nothing’ said Violet, in her sweet low voice, and she put out her little hand to him. Don clasped it in his own and held it fast. “1 ought not to have spoken,” said Don, contritely, as he aided Miss Mowbray to rise; “bat can it be, dear Violet, that you are unhurt? You have been riding. Where are your friends? How could they leave you here? and by what strange coincidence could it be my fortune to find you here in th’s solitary Spot? But you are safe. Oh! tell me again, Miss Violet, •that you ore unharmed; and lean on me, for yyu are ueak and trembling, fa I pee.” Poor Violet had little to telL She had been thrown, and had been senseless, and had lain 00 the turf beside the road in a , ,i*qtii —until Don found her. As for,the horse, it had vanished. And that .vras all. She said no more; but there was ’a’ twite n ee'in hefmannef, a’Bhylooking earthward of those beantifnl great eyes of here, and an avoidance of Don’s gaze, which forced upon the young man the conviction that the girl had a perfect memory of how he had clasped her in his arm* and kissed her, believing her, as he

did, to be dead. Add then some ehivaL pons instinct in his heart awakened, and he feh that h-’ must tell his tale and plead bis cause under all disadvantages of worldly position. Because he had gone so far, he was, as it were, bound to go further. ‘‘l ought not to have spoken,” said Don, half penitently but half proudly, too; “I know that 1 ought not. For the sake of much kindness from kind Mr. Langton and his wife, it would have been treacherous in me, as well as presumptuous, to breathe a word of love to the young lady who dwelt beneath his roof. I have put a padlock on my lips hitherto, and have schooled-my very eyes not to betray me. But this has been too much for my resolve and my reserve. My secret, kept for months and years, has been wrung from me at last. The excitement of that miserable moment scattered all my prudence, all my wise determination, to the winds. It is true, Vioiet—l may call you by that dear name?—that I though* you dead, and that with the loss of you all the joy and brightness of my own life were gone—gone forever! So the passionate cry broke from my heart, and so I dared to kiss your cheek, and to clasp you to my breast, and to tell you how I loved—but I was all unaware that your ears, dearest, could drink in my wild words. I must, as I am an honest man, repeat them now. Yes, I, the poor jet hunter, the nameless, kinless founding of the sea-beach, have dared to love the highly connected Miss Mowbray, and to tell her so. Now, if you choose to banish me for my presumption, I cat but bow my head and £0” She seemed stronger by this time, and had let go her hold on his arm, and be stood a little way off, looking intently in her face with his dark, eager eyes. "You have not—have not offended me, Mr. Don—indeed!" she said. He sprang forward, hope, wonder, love flashing from his bright eyes, and again he took her band. “Violet —Miss Mowbray,” said Don, quickly, "can it ■be that I have heard aright? Can it be that you do not chide me for the presumption, the ” “There was no presumption," almoet whispered Violet. “You saved my life, but before that day the recollection of you, the image of you. as the truest gentleman, the best and bravest I had ever known, had grown to be—l may own it now—very dear to me.” And then Don took her in his arms and kissed her, and for a few delicious moments the two young things felt as supremely happy as if they had suddenly been spirited away into some enchanted island, where Love reigned supreme. (To be continued.)