People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 May 1894 — THE OLD MILE MYSTERY. [ARTICLE]

THE OLD MILE MYSTERY.

BY ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT, B. A.

AuUiop of “Mi«p Hoadley’« Secret,** “Madeline Power," “By Whose Hand,** ** Isa,** &c., &r, [Copyright, 1888, by the Author.)

PROLOGUE. “But don’t you mean the woman must be discharged, doctor?” “Yes; that’s exactly what I do mean. There’s no alternative.” “Well, but she’s just as mad as when *he first came into the asylum,” exclaimed the first speaker, Mrs. Hoyle, the matron of the female side of Wadsworth lunatic asylum. “Yes; I know that as well as you do,” returned Dr. Batley; “but here’s the order from the commissioners for her release, and we’ve neither the right to question it nor the power to detain the woman.” “But she’s not fit to be at. large. She's a murderess—nothing more or nothing less,” cried the matron, indignantly. “That may be,” answered the doctor, drj'ly, “but the commissioners can’t be expected to set up the question of a patient’s sanity against a rule •f red-tape. What has happened is this: The certificate on which this woman, Lucy Howell, has been brought in is invalid; the new certificate was to have been here, and hasn’t come; consequently she will have to be set at liberty. ’’ “What if she kills the first person she meets?” “So much the worse for the first person and the commissioners,” replied the doctor, with a short cynical laugh. “But no blame can be attached to us.”

Bridge, started and turned round, and a slight flush showed for a moment on her features, as she heard her name thus spoken. “Mr. Gorringe!” • “Did I startle you out of a pleasant reverie?” asked the man. “But it is too great a pleasure to find you alone for me to resist the temptation of speaking to you. You are not angry?” The speaker was a thick-set man of some thirty years of age, with large, well-shaped, resolute features that spoke of great force of will; and he looked eagerly at the girl out of his keen, clear blue eyes, over which hung dark, bushy brows. “No, 1 am not angry, but —” “But what?” he asked, as she hesitated. She was silent a moment, and then, with a slight blush again tinging her cheek, she looked kindly at him and said: “The ‘but’ was, that I think you had better not call me by my Christian name.”

The man laughed a good-natured, hearty, self-satisfied laugh. “Nonsense, Mary, nonsense. Whoever heard of anyone objecting to such a thing hereabouts? I think of you as Mary—aye, and as my Mary, too, my lass, in spite of all you said last time; and what’s more, I shall never think a nything else,” he added, very earnestly, as he went closer to her. “You forget, Mr. Gorringe, that you are the manager of the mill, and I am only one of the work people.” “Nonsense, stuff and rubbish, Mary. I was a mill hand, too, wasn’t I? and not so long ago, either. If I’ve made a bit of brass, where’s the good of it, if I can’t do what I like, aye, and have whom I like to share it. You’d better change your mind, lass, and say you’ll marry me.” “I have told you—” she began, when he interrupted her impetuously. “Yes, yes; I know you’ve told me, and more than once for the matter of that,” and he laughed again good naturedly. “And what’s more, you’ll have to go on telling me scores of times yet, before I shall believe you. You’ll have to give way in the long run.” “It cannot be, Mr. Gorringe.” “Reuben." he interposed; “you may as well call me by that name first as last. “No,” said the girl, decidedly. “To me you are Mr. Gorringe, my employer, and I cannot call you anything else.” “Stuff and rubbish. See now what j it means. Seven years ago, I was a \ mill-hand. Five years ago, I had | scraped up enough to start ths old j Winckley shed. Three yearn ago, I '< took the management of this old Walkden mill; and to-day I’m ready for another move up. I can put my hand on a good bit of brass to-day, and I’m going to be a rich man, Mary; and if you’ll marry me, you shall be a rich woman.” The girl shook her head at this speech, which jarred on her. “It’s not money I care about,” she said. “What is it, then? Is it love?” he cried, in a voice suddenly full of passion. “Don’t you think that I love you? What can Ido to persuade you? There are many things I hold dear in this world; success, money, reputation, power—but I’d give them all up, without a murmur, if to win you, Mary. I would, I swear I would,” he said, vehemently. “Won’t you trust me ; and be my wife, lass?” His voice sank almost to a whisper and his eyes and face were alight with his love for the girl. “I have told you it cannot be. lam i very sorry,” she answered. He stayed a full half-minute without speaking, merely letting his hand rest on her arm, while his eyes were fixed | on her face.

“But Dr. Accring declares that hers is a subtle form of mania that is absolutely incurable. She has all the fancies of a murderess, and all the crotchets of a madwoman, hidden away under her gentle ways and soft •pcccli. ** “Well, we can’t help that. She’ll have to go, and we may as well tell her at once.” “Then there’ll be murder done before she comes back, and come back she certainly will,” said the matron, as she left the room to fetch the woman of whom the two had been speaking. She returned in a few minutes bringing with her a tall, handsome woman of about four or five and twenty, whose finely developed figure was rather set off than concealed by the somber dress which she wore. When the doctor spoke her name she looked at him closely and answered in a low, clear and rather sweet voice: “You want me, sir?” “Yes; I sent for you to tell you you are to be discharged from here.” “I am glad you see at last that I’m not mad,” was the reply, calmly spoken and with a confident smile. “I did not say I saw that,” answered the doctor, dryly. “Well, so long as somebody sees it, and lam liberated, I am satisfied. I ought never to have been brought here.” “You will now be able to do what you wish to do, Miss Howell,” said the matron, interchanging a rapid glance with the doctor. In an instant a light flashed into the woman’s eyes as she looked up and cried, with a touch of eager passion: “Yes, I’ll —” But, catching the expression on the others’ faces, she stopped as suddenly, and changed her tone with her look, adding: “Yes, I shall be glad to be at liberty again.” The change in her manner had been startling in its abruptness; and in the moment of excitement she had looked dangerous enough to suggest hidden depths of intense passion. “When shall you try and seek out the people who are following you about with knives!” asked the matron again. “That dark, good looking young villain, who was your lover and deceived you, that you told me about?” But this time the reference to her craze had no rousing effect. She had obtained complete self-mastery and answered quietly: “I am sorry I have made such mistakes. I suppose that, being in a place like this, where everyone has fancies, I frightened myself. But, now lam going away, I shall leave them.” “Where are you going?” asked the doctor, disregarding her gesture. Lucy Howell thought for a moment, hesitating in her reply, and then she said:

“Why can’t it be, Mary?” he asked. “Do you doubt me?” “No, no, Mr. Gorringe,” she answered, impulsively: “but—but—it is hard for mo to have to say this; I do not love—” He interrupted her with a light laugh, and then seizing both her hands in his, he held her close to him and looked earnestly into her eyes. “I did not ask you for your love yet, child. I can wait for that. I have plenty for both of us. Give me yourself; that is all I ask now. You trust me, and love shall soon come. I will take you, love or no love, and be only too thankful to have you, my dear.” “No, no!” cried the girl, vehemently, struggling to free her hands. “Let m* go, please, Mr. Gorringe. You have no right to hold me like this.” He let her go instantly. “I am sorry,” he said, quite humbly. “I forgot myself. Ido forget myself, and everything else, when I am with you, Mary. But you must be my wife. I cannot live without you.” Then he started, and paled a little, as a thought plagued him. “It’s not—but, no, it can’t be, or I should have seen. It’s not that yon care for anyone else, is it?” He asked this in a firm, low voice. “What right have you to question me?” said the girl, blushing, partly with indignation, partly with confusion. The wan looked at her keenly, knitting his heavy brows till they frowned ominously. “Do you think I’m * man to be fooled lightly?" he waked. In a quick, atern tone. Then he changed again, and spoke quietly, without giving the fir) time to reply: “There’s no need far t*ui ■ nee between no ton Ton’s*

“Where I came from, sir—Mireley.” “What are you?” “A silk weaver," said the woman. “There are no sheds at Mireley,” returned the doctor, quickly and suspiciously. “I am not bound to go back to weaving, am I?” was the reply, flashed back in half anger; and then in a much milder tone she added; “I shall want a rest, sir, after the life here; besides, I have friends at Mireley, and I—they will want me.” “Well, you are to go out at two o'clock this afternoon and the man who brought you herd will come for you at that time. You had better be ready." “Thank you, sir,” said the woman. W ithout looking again at the doctor she turned and left the room, followed by the matron. “She seems sensible enough, Mrs. Hoyle," he said, when the latter returned. “But, sensible or not sensible, she has to go.” “Oh, she’s as sensible as I am, and a precious sight more cunning. But if murder don’t come of this business -—Well, it’ll be a marvel to me.” CHAPTJER l tbs rnoros.u, “Miss Ashworth—Mary.” A dark, pretty girl, dressed in blaek. who stood leaning upon a gate just in* mOl village mi WalMen

seen —you must have Been —the hold you have over me. I’ve made no secret that I love you. You can do with me what you will, for I’m a fool hi your hands. But take care, my girl; such power as yours over me don’t go without responsibility. It’s a power that can move me for good or spoil me for life. With such as me there’s no middle course; and you can do what you will; and, by , if you fool me now for another man there won’t be room for us both on this earth. That I swear,” and he clenched his fist and brought it down heavily on the gate in front of them.

“I have listened to you too long.” said the girl. “When you talk to me about ‘fooling you’ I sec how stupid I have been.” “I’m sorry, I am; I swear I am; I didn’t mean what I said. Ah, Mary, don’t turn away like that. I’ll go away if you wish it. But I can’t trust myself when I think of losing you. Tell me I’ve no reason to think that.” “I’ve told you that I can never marry you; and I deny you have a right to put such a question to me.” “I have the right that love gives me,” he burst out vehemently again. “Now, I believe there is somebody. But you shall never marry anyone, if you don’t marry me; that I swear on my soul,” he exclaimed, passionately. “And you know whether I’m a man to keep my word.” Then, as the girl was turning away, he went quickly to her and seized her arm rather roughly. “Will you swear to me that you care for no one more than for me?” he asked, angrily. “Let me go, Mr. Gorringe; how dare you hold me like that?” she cried, angrily and excitedly, her face flushing with feeling. He loosed his hold of her and walked on determinedly by her side. “I mean to have an answer,” he said, doggedly. “You shall have no answer from me,” she replied. “Then I’ll watch you till I find out,” he said, and then they walked on in silence. Suddenly as they turned a sharp curve in the road the man saw his companion start, and a troubled look came over her face; and then he noticed the color rise in her cheeks and deepen as a tall, upstanding, handsome young fellow approached. “Why, Mary, what’s the matter?” cried the newcomer, stopping in front of them. “Good evening, Mr. Gorringe,” he added, turning for a moment to the latter.

“Matter, Tom? Why, nothing, of course,” answered the girl. “Good evening, Roylance,” said Reuben Gorringe; “there’s nothing more the matter than that Miss Ashworth— Mary, that is—and I have been for a walk together, and have bad an interesting little talk. That’s all.” And while he was speaking, and after he had finished, he looked curiously from one to the other. “Indeed,”, said Tom Roylance, coolly. “Then, as Mary and I have an appointment it’s my turn to go for a walk with her, and to ‘have an interesting little talk;’ and as I had fixed in the other direction for the walk we won’t trouble you to turn back,” and without saying anything more he took the girl’s hand, tucked it into his arm and walked away with her. CHAPTER IL TUB SHADOW OF TROUBLE. “Has the boss been saying anything to worry you, Mary?” asked Tom Roylance, when the two had been some little time alone. “He looked black enough when I came up,” and the young fellow laughed. The question was a somewhat awkward one for Mary. She did not wish to make mischief between the two men. “Oh, no; only some nonsense or other he has in his head,” she answered. “Well, so long as he doesn’t think too much about you I don’t care. What did he mean by having an interesting talk with you?” “I was waiting for you at the gate where we generally meet when he came up and began to talk about one thing and another.” “Do 'you like Reuben Gorringe, Mary?” he asked, turning and looking sharply into her face. “Like him?” she echoed, laughing, not quite at her ease. “What can it matter what, a girl at the looms thinks of the manager of the mill?” “Yes, that’s all very well, if you don’t want to answer the question,” said Tom Roylance, with more than a touch of jealous suspicion. “But if you do, I don’t; and for half-an-inch of yarn I’ll tell him what I think. I know too much about Mister Reuben Gorringe. He’s a clever chap, no doubt about that; but he’s just a baby in sftme things. He’s an ugly customer till he gels his way, though, and no mistake.” Tom Roylance was a lighthearted, careless, rather thoughtless young fellow, clever enough to have made rapid progress in his work, but, like many another, content to like fortune as it came, and lacking the strong determination to forego the pleasure of the moment in order to secure success. He was quick and shrewd, a good workman, steady and reliable, and capable, in the face of any great emergency, of showing plenty of free character. He was a general favorite both in and out of the mill, and Reuben Gorringe himself had taken to him: But he could not help meeting all the bothers of life with a laugh and a jest. He was careless enough to be his own enemy; but too straight and true to be an enemy of anyone else. His relations with Mary Ashjrorth were characteristic. They had been together in the village from the time they were children; and there was a sort of tacit understanding between them that each belonged to the other, and that they were to be married some day; but nothing had ever been spoken openly about marriage. There were, indeed, Hindrances to a marriage. Tom’s father was alive, too crippled to work, and thus dependent upon him; while Mary’s mother forced the girl to maintain her. being herself idle, thriftleea. and gi rco to oooaetonal wild flu of driaking

The two discussed all their plans, troubles, worries and hopes together in the frankest way. The man turned to the girl for advice in many matters; while there was not an act of life in which Mary did not try to act as she judged Tom would have wished her. She had never thought of any man as a possible lover but Tom Roylance, and shaped all her life to accord with the idea that when he thought the time fitting, he would arrange for their mar riage. Neither spoke for a minute or two after Tom’s last speech; he had n< wish to carry the topic further, whilf Mary was anxious to get away from subject of Reuben Gorringe alto gether; and when they spoke again it was of other matters, until the girl, thinking she could detect some symptoms of restlessness about her companion, began to question him. [VO BR CONTIXtTED.J