Greenfield Republican, Greenfield, Hancock County, 2 January 1891 — Page 2
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'iobert BuehaMni \, ?*?&&**I ,* CHAPTER IX. £V j| ANNIE'S CONFESSION. I Tb«y were all in bod when I pot back that night, but as 1 passed the door of Annie's room I fancied I heard the sound of Bobbing1. I knocked Boffcly but she mado no answer, so I caneluded that I must have been mistaken nd that she was asleep. 4 The next morning1 she attended at breakfast as usual. She looked a lit'lo pale, and now and ajjain glanced deasily and rather questioningly at %»e. When I ros3 to go she put on her bonnet, spying: 1 "I am goiug1 a bit of the way wilh
Hugh, mother." and then, somewhat to my surprise. sha came along into the road with mo. When wo were fairly away from the houses and passing across the moor, sne put her taad on my arm and said sofUy: I "Hugh, dsaf Hu Ja, I have been out before this morning. I have seen the young master." 1 suppose try face darkened ominously, for she hurriedly continued: A. "Hugh, you must not get angry— indeed you must not. I did it lor the best. I was afraid, after what happened last night, that he would dismiss you and he would have done, but I have interceded, aad now all will be as fet was before." "You have intarceded for me!" I said. '-Then you were wrong, Annie if he wishes to dismiss me. let him. I have other means of earning my tread."''
For answer to this Annie employed ft stronger medium than words—she cried. Now, tears always disarm roe 'all I could do was what I did. soothe toy cousin, kiss her pretty cheek, call, myself a brute and avow that she w.is the dearest, sweetest little woman in the world. Under this process Annie came round, and smilol sadly up at me.through her tears. ''You promise," she said, "to go on just the same as usual, and tu take no notice of what occurred last night?" "I will promise," I said, "if you show me the good of it." ••The good of it will depend upon whether or not you care anything for toe." she replied* "Justlhiuk. Hugh, if you two quarrel again, and you are dismissed, everybody will know why it all came about—and my mother and father too. Ah, Hugh, dear Hugh, for my sa'.ce!1'
She folded her little hands over my arm and looked up inl,o my lace like a Buppliwvt:ng child.
As I looked down into her bright eyes., now fat filling agiin with tears the thought came into my mind to do what her mother and father wished me to do. I thought of saving, "Annie, five me a right to protect von. Tet me cull you wne, ana will :igree lo all you say." Bit something ueld mo, and the golden moment pass.
For a couple of days or so the master kept away nnd things went on at the works pretty much as usual but on the fourth day ho strolled down. He talked a good deal to Johnson, but never addressed one word to
#ne.^ He looked at me, however, and the .look he gave made rue wonder what strangei-.ii.luon.C3 Annie possessed when she ci*uld induce him to keap in his employment one whom ho so cordial ly hciled. I, however, took no notice, since I hid given my promise to Annie, and an onlooker would never have gaessel that anything sinister was going on.
Hovrloug this state of things might have lasttMi it is impos ibluto say. but it vas mcst uno.\-pe, tedlty aud ^udJonly changed.
One day my aunt, having a little shopping lo do, art'} 011:0
1
pu, haps lor
day's outing, determined to go to Falmouth. She skirted off in the morning In -John lludd wagon, left ray co is'n to keep house.
Anthill de-
Now, it had seemed t- rne that nie had looked peculiarly dull morning, so ta.vards afternoon. I termined to take an hour, and to hur, ry back to the cottage lo see how she was getting on.
As I drew near to the cottage door. I was astonished to heir noisas—the one loud and angry, the other soft and pleading. When I entered the kitchen my sunaxement increased ten fold.
An oHrl.v lady—none other, iudeeoU than eld Mrs. Redruth, George l?ed, ruth's widowed mother—was standing in the middle of the? ronn. while my cousin Annie, crying bitterly, was actually on her knees before her!
Mrs. Rodr.itn had two characterise tics, her confirmed ill-health and her iron will. Her power in the village was great but she was feared rather than br loved. Indeed, it was averred by many iat evo*y hard dead committed by either her husband or he son might have bean traced to hor influence. For the rest, fr.he was a tail thin woman, with powerful aquiline features and a face of ghastly pallor.
Amazed at her presence there, 1 enteral uncerlmonioijsly but both were so intent upon themselves th\t they were actually unaware of my ug-proa-h.'
The old .woman was spoaklnj?: "Your tsars don't deceive me," alio Eaid. am not a man and a fool. I am a rtSother. and I know when danger hreateris my child, and I say that you are dditog your best to entangle my son. But take care. George Redruth shall not be sacrificed sooner than thpt I. will ruin you—do you hear?--tuin you!" ••Oh" 'my lady!' sobbed Annie, "will you "F o^'-sho returned. "I will not! Listen ..to^ou—when every word yon ut4 r, irust be a lie! I have seen you wii.n my son, Cease to follow him. or ^before every soul in
jt will exjpoft (the village!'
rrf:-?-
iA'W 1 «ak then" she changed her mitfa, and without uttering a word passed out,
As for myself, I' bad been too much stupefied to say a word, -and I stood now, like a great hear, looking at my cousin, who, sobbing piteously. had sunk into a chair. Then suddenly, whiie gazing at her thus, it seemed to me that the time had come for me to 6peak. I went up to her, raised her from the chair, and folded her in my arms. "Ann'c," I said. "Annie, my dear,. let thi?ro be an end to this. Give me the right to protest you from all this trouble that has come upou you lately Become my wife."
She started and 6tared at mo like a frightened child. ''Your wife, Hugh!"6hesaid. "Your wife!" "Yes, Annie," I answered. "My wife—that is, if you care for mo enough, my dear."
At'this she fell to crying afresh,and clung to me teudtrlj*. *»Ah, Hugh, dear Hugh!" she sobbed. "You are the kindest and best man in all the world, and it is your kindness which makes you ask me this now, for you don't love me,Hugh."
Her words cut me to the heart, lor I felt tbeir truth. "Perhaps," I said, "I don't romance as some young fellows might, but I shall make as good a husband. I have always been fond of you, Annio, ever since that night, years ago, when I iirst came here and you gave me a welcome. Wo have ever been excellent friends, haven't we? And now tell mo if we shall be more than friends?"
She shook her head. "No, Hugh be what you have always been—my own dear brother." -Is it because you think I don't care for you, Annie?'1' "Ah, no!" sha replied. "Don't think it is that. So much the better for you, dear, that you don't love me for even if it were otherwise, we two: could never be man and wife."
I looked into her eyes.and I thought I road tbeir meaning. Annie did not care fer me her heart was with an other man, and that man far above her.
I think I see those who read theso lino* smiling at my ignorance or my folly, and asking, was it possible that all I had seen or heard awa-kened in my mind no suspicion of any darkenwrong lurking in my little cousin's path? Yes it was quite possible. Grown man as I was, 1 had no experience whatever of the world. I would have trusted Annie in any company, or in any place, and I nevor dreamed for a moment that there could bo any danger to one so good.
As my thought travels back to that time, 1 reproach myself again and agair for, my own blindness. What wo*--, 9 of porrow it would have saved it I had been less unsuspicus—if 1 naa only loved poor Annio more!
CHAPTER X, THE LETTER.
But after this I watched Annio a good doal. and I soon discovered she had a great and growing trouble on ne-r mind. She was restless and ill at ease, and once or twice, while I observed her quietly, I saw tears suddenly start to her eyes. ller mother and father noticed this, too but they attributed the change to quite another cause. Ihoy were goad, honest folk, who could only consider one project at a time: and as for several months past their miuds had been occupied eo'eiy with the idea of a marriage between Annio and myself, they naturally assumed disagreements between us two to be the cause of their daughter's depression.
I had not the heart to undeeeivo them. I determined, however, to speak to Annie again, and ask for some further explanation of this mysand tery.
One afternoon, about three days after our former interview, I was standing at the mouth of the mine, thinking of things, when I was startled by the sudden appearance of my "aunt. Sha looked pale: but ready to become very angry. "Hugh!" she said, before I had time to open my lips, ••where be Awnie?"
Had I been able at that moment to produce my cousin, she would certainly have been rated very soundly whereas I shook my hoad and said, "1 don't know!" The rising anger entirely dissanered, and her face grew paler. •'lint you'ea seea her to-day? she cont'nued. "No. When I left this morning you were all abed."
At this my aunt fairiy broke down, and moaned between her sobs, "Oh, Hugh! she gone,gone!" 1 was fairly stunned, and all I could do just then was to comfort my aunt, who was weeping bitterly. When she was more composed. I asked for an explanation of what had taken place, and she gave it. The facts were simple euough, After my uncle and I had left for the mine, my aunt rosie, expecting to find the kitchen fire alight as usual, and Annie busy makthings neat for the day. To her astonishment.. the kitchen was empty, the ashes iu the grate were grey, aud all was in disorder as it had been on the night before. She called Annie, but got no inswor she searched the cott ige. )t failed to find her then, concluding that she bad gone to the village on some errand, she set about doing the worK heruelf. Several hours passed away and, as there was still no sign of the mi'ssing girl, my aunt began to grow extremely alarmed. She searched1through and around the house with no aflfeoi. She now went down to the village and made several inquiries, but with no result. Annie had not been seen by anyone that day.
Seriously alarmed by this timo, she
anWfotottd tbaV aithov.,^ ya order, ib had not been clops in that night.
Having told her tale.my aunt looked at roe, hoping that I might be able to say her fears for her child were unfounded. I could not the utmost could do was to counsel silence,and try to buoy her up with hope. This I did. "Itmay be all right, aunt," I said "therefore it will be much better to keep our fears to ourselves. Don't say anything to my uncle there will bo time enough to do that when our last hope is gone.
After some little difficulty,'she consented to follow my advice, and I persuaded her to return ho ne. But the day was finished for me. After my aunt was g-ine. 1 could do nothing but think of Annie: the worst fears Struggled to take possession of me, but I diligently 1 hr :st thmoaway.^ I would not believe ill of my cousin.
About li v.3 o'clock.my uncle catno up froru tho mine, and 1 proposed we should knock oil work for the day, and stroll home together. My uncle was in s-iugul
j.rly
good spirits, and during
our wal'i home he frequently checked his mirth, avowing 'twas unnatural, and that something ill would come of it. As we drew near the cottage, my heart beat painfully and when we went in Hooked anxiously about mo.
My aunt was moving about prepare ing tea, aud she was alone. '•Whar be the little womaft?" asked my uncle as we sat down to our meal. saw my aunt's face grow very pale, but &he turned her head away and answered as carelessly as possibles ••She be gawn out!'' ••Beant, she coming in to tao?" "Naw' vi-i.
The answer was conclusive, and tho meal went on my undo eating heartily. while I was scarcely able to sip my cup of tea. When the meal was over, niy uncle, according to his usual custom, went to his seat beside the lira and lit his pipe.
He had been smoking for an hour or more, when a scene occurred which I cannot recall without pain even now. All signs of the meal had been cleared away, and my aunt, with trembling hand, was about to lift dow her workbasket from its shelf, when a knock came to the kitchen door then the door was opened, and in cam a John Rudd.
He had a parcel for my aunt, which he delivered ho chatted for a few minutes. then he prepared to go.
His hand was on the l:itch of tho door, when he paused aud looked back: ••Say. missus," said he, "vvhar be Miss Awnie gawn to?"
My undo looked up curiously my aunt's cheeks grew as whita aa newfallen snow. jy "Whar be she gam to??'1 she repeated helplessly. "Jo.-!" eontimy»d Ruddf^"T seifn her this marnining in Falmouth, but she were in a mighty hurry and didn't see me. She were dawn on the jalty. and she went aboard the steamer for Partsmouth." Mr. Rudd paused, thunderstruck at the effect of bis words.
My aunt, thorongly exhausted by the strain that had been put upon her that day, sank, sobbing and moaning, into a chair my uncle, who had risen from his seat, stood glaring from one to another.
Presently he spoke. 'Whit be all this about mv Awnie?' he cried. "Speak, come 'un."
My aunt continued to sob, John Rudd s^-ired in a mystified manner at one ant' ail. "There's nothing to alarm anybody," I said "it's all right."
But my uncle, who was growing terribly excitad, hardly seam id to hoar me. ••If thar bo aught wrong wi" my little woman," ha cried, "tell me I aint a child to be petted, nor a fool to be kept i1 the dark. Speak, toll me what 'tis all about!"
So we told him all we knevr, putting this and that together, he gathered at least one idea—that his child had, for some reason or other, voluntarily left home. He stood like a man stupefied, scarcely gathering tho sense of tho situation, aud dimly wondering why his wife received the news so violently. In his simplicity, he did not guess as yet. that Anuie's night might hare its origin in secret guilt and shame.
But when John Rudd wasgoae. and we were left to ourselves, I looked ut my tincla and aunt, both so changed within the last few hours, and told them my suspicions of George Redruth To my surprise they were received with blank amazement, then with indignation. My uncle averred that had always disliked the young master, and it was bit natural I should credit him with a dastardly deed but he himself refused to believe for one moment in the young mini's guilt. I felt convinced of it, however, in my own mind: and in order to make sure, I determined to go up to the master's house and ascertain if he were from home.
The moment my uncle heard of my determination lie reolved to accompany me. On asking for the master we were slnvvn into the library live minutes later th a yoking man himself walked into the room.
The sight of him deprived me utterly of tho power of speech my uncle looked at me reproachfully, and was silent too.
George Redruth, who had jnst beeu dining, wore evening dress and had never lookeJ handsomer or more thor«» oughly at ease in his life. ••Well," he said, glanoing at us pleasantly—ho was evidently in an after-dinner mood—"is there anything I can do for you?" "Master Jarge," eaid ray unco, earnestly. "wo'm in trouble, sir in sore trouble." "Indeed! I'm sorry to hear It." "ikaawld
vou'd
ruiijd atfay.'' ». .-e ''\Vhat!" ho exclaimed. ''Runaway from home, do you mean? But .why como to me? What can I doP" ••Naught you can't do naught at all." said my uncle "that's just it-"
It was an awkward situation for up all, and we all felt it. My uncle turned his hat nervously round aud round, while the young master grew more and more uncomfortable as every minute went by. 1 felt that so me explanation was demanded, and I gave it.
4
"The fact is, sir." I said, "there is some villain at the bottom of it. and we want to find out who that villain is." "And so you come to me! Really, I don't see the force of all this, and I have more important matters to domain me."
He opened the door, and we, seeing that further conversation would be useless, left the room and house.
During the walk home ray uncle never spoke. When we reached the cottage he sank down into a chair and hid his face in his hands.
Nothing more could be done that night, so we all went to bed, but not to seep. During tho night I heard my uncle walking with measured step up and down his room, and in the gray of the morning he came out to the kitchen to kindle a tire,
I looked at him and scarcely knew him his face was white and lined like that of au old man. He was quite calm, but there was a sad look in his eyes which spo'te of deep-set pain. 1 spoke to him of Annie, and told of a plan I had made to follow her and bring her back, but he sadly shook h!s head. "Taw, lad," said he, 'tis best left alawn she went o' her awn free will, and maybe some day she'll come bae*, and till she do^s we'll wait, we'll wait."
I felt I10 was right it was bettor to wait. Even if we had been rich folk, which wo were not, it would have beon difficult to find her as it was. the matter was hopeless. So wo went on as usual with the old life. And yet it was riot the old life, for tho house was changed indeed—and there was ever one vacant chair.
Several days after that sad night a letter came from Annie it bore the London postmark, and ran {is follows: ••Mr DEAR PARENTS,
Do not grive about me, for I am quite well and in waut of nothing. Do not attempt to find me, it would be useless but I shall soon come back, with God's blessing, and thon you will learn why I left without a word. I am sorry, so sorry for any trouble I have given you. and hope you will forgivo me, for the sake of tho happy days,that are gone away. Your loving daughter, Annie.' 1 My aunt read the letter aloud: then my uncle took it from her, looked at it for a long time, and finally, without a word, placed it on the fire—watching U. t'll it was consumed. After that, for a long time to come, he never spoke of Annie again: but he drooped daily, like a man under the weight of some mortal pain. (To bo continued.)
Be Had a Reason,
Epoch. vrphy (spokesman of committee). Slattery, we byes on yez an' put yer name to this pateeshua for shortor hours.
Slattery—Oi do put moy name to no payteeshuns. Murphy—Phwat! Don't yez be in wid th' movement?
Slattery—-Of course Oi do be in wid th' movement, but Oi put moy name to no paytceshuus.
Murphy—Phwat ails ye.mon? Slattery—Oi do tells ye Oi put my name to no pay toe buns*
Murphy—All th' rist o' th' byes do be a siuin' o1 it. Slattery— Well, Oil! be domd if Oi do.
Murphy—Don't ye be afther wan tin' shorter hours and bigger pay? Slattery—O' course Oi do.
Murphy—Do yo want th' byos to think yo to bo a scabbor. Slattery—O'course not.
Murphy—Thin, Mr. Slattery, phwy th' divil won't ye sign ye«s name to the payteeshun?
Slattery—Be cause. Mr. Murphy, Oi don't be after knowin' how to wrote moy name.
Cost r,f a Sncipry Dmnrr. New York has become a city of extravagance iu dltmer-giving.and many of the entertainments, with all the dclicaoies of the season and rare tvines. cost from §20 to it) per cover. Of course the latter is the outside figure, but reckoning that one gives a dinner once a week to a purty of. say. fifteen, at the first named fi^are it will provo a snug sum at tho end of the year In order to render theso dinners complete and perfect the ho-itess must possess a dinner service mora or less elaborate, and it is rarely, if over, that the ina» jority of outsiders stop to consider what these consist of and how much money is spent in this direction. In the old Roman days no greater magnificence could liavo existed in the way of table decoration, wines and service than a millionaire New Yorker displays when his wife gives a large dinner.
A Land of A«1nItesatlons. Austria is a country where one's food needs to be tested in order to avoid adulteration. At the laboratory in Venice, where food is analyzed for nothing, a loaf of bread was found to consist largely of the pulverized bark of trees, sawdust and chaff ground pepper was found to be mixed with wood ashes cinnamon was colored wi ochre, and a so-called nutritiop#' coftW' consisted entirely of jpooet aQtfrns and chicory. wiL itim. Sua-.. ":ii
BUT
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A
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