People's Pilot, Volume 4, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 September 1894 — THE OLD MILL MYSTERY [ARTICLE]

THE OLD MILL MYSTERY

By Arthur W. Marchmont, B. A.

Asthor of “Miser Hendley’s Secret,” “Madeline Power,” “By Whose Hand,” \ i “Isa,” Ac., Ac. {Copyright, 1892,, by the Author.] CHAPTER XXir-aCoNTINur.D. She resolved to see Savannah without a moment’s delay, and for this purpose went to the latter's cottage. She was at the mill, and Mary went and waited where she knew Savannah would pass. The latter wat? in an irritable and angry mood. “You look mighty doleful there, Mary.” began Savannah. “One would think you’d been out begging and had had a precious bad day.” “Well, they would be right as to the latter thought,” answered the girl. “It has been a bad day for me. lam in grievous trouble, Savannah.” “All about a man, too, who just plays fast and loose with you, eh? Give him up. lass, give him up.” Mary’s cheek crimsoned with anger at the sneer, but she kept her temper under control and made no answer. “Oh, but we can flare up scarlet, to be sure, when anybody gives use a bit of good advice which we don’t want to take,” said Savannah again, with a forced, boisterous laugh. “Ah, he's a bad ’un, Mary; a regular bad ’un,” and she laughed again. Mary walked on by the other's side without retorting, though her heart burned within her till she almost felt as if she could have struck Savannah. “It’s poor work jesting when one is in sore straits,” she said, quietly. Savannah's reply to this was another laugh. “Where’s the good of fretting and worrying, I should like to know? All the tears in the world can’t stop the making of a good hemp rope. Bah, I’ve no patience with your sickly sentimental weep, weep, weep. Take the world as it goes, say I, and leave it when the time comes; but don’t go about frettingand fooling and crying.” When they reached the door of Savannah’s cottage she turned and faced her companion. “Don’t come in if you can’t look a bit more cheerful. I’ve no mind tonight to be worried with a lot of crying.” “I want to speak to you,” said Mary, seriously; and followed the girl into the cottage. “If you had one whom you loved lying dangerously ill, you would not feel bright and joyous,” said Mary. “Why not?” said the other. “What is it to me if others die? What care I? What would they care if I were dying? Not the rush of a shuttle. Why should I care for them? Do you think the thought of dying frightens me? Psh! none but fools are frightened to die — or to see others die either. I’m not. I like to see death.” She turned her eyes on the girl as she spoke, and they shone with a hard cruel light. Then she gave a sneering laugh as she added: “But there, what’s the use talking like that? You haven’t come here to speak about death, I suppose?” Savannah’s manner startled Mary and discomfited her. “No, no,” she answered, somewhat hastily.- “I came to speak.about Tom and about the cruel things they say of him.” “Well, and what of him?” asked Savannah, smiling grimly as she added: “It’s over quick yet to put him and death in the same sentence.” “Don’t, Savannah,” cried Mary, shrinking from the words as if the other had struck her. “Ah, I thought that wouldn’t suit you,” she said, the smile on her handsome face growing less hard. “But what is it?” and she fixed a keen, inquiring look on Mary’s face. “I want you to tell me exactly when and where you left Tom on Friday night,” said Mary, thinking it best to go straight to the point. “Who says I was with him at all? And how come you, of all others, to ask me for information?” “Tom has told me all that passed,” said Mary. “Oh, Tom has told you all that passed,” replied the other, mockingly. “And if Tom has told you, what do you want to come to me for, eh? Don’t you think your bonny lover has told you the truth? Is that it? I don’t suppose he has, for that matter. All men lie,” she added, laughing insultingly. “Will you tell me what I ask?” said Mary, after a pause in which she had fought down her temper. '*¥«■, If you warn to spy on him, . Jk JL A*

But you won’t draw me into any lie*. I wasn’t with him at all,” said Savannah, steadily, as she looked Mary straight in the eyes. “What?” exclaimed Mary, excitedly. “Do you dare to deny it?” “Deny it—deny what?” returned Savannah, hotly and angrily. “I have told you the truth. lam no liar like — like—a man. I say I never saw Tom Roylance on Friday night; and I will swear to that on my oath.” She spoke so solemnly and'earnestly that Mary turned cold with despair as she thought of all that the words meant to her lover.

CHAPTER XXIIL gibeox pr.AWLE svmmisES mart. A very little reflection warned Mary that she had made a mistake, perhaps a serious one, in showing so much concern at Savannah’s statement, and she made a great effort at self-recovery. “That surprised you, eh?” said Savannah. “Has he been making up some yarn or other about me?” “If I am surprised,” answered Mary, quietly, “it is because those who say they saw you two together should all make such a mistake.” “Who are they?” asked Savannah, ! hotly. “Who are the liars that are not afraid to slander a girl and try to take her character away? Some of those cowardly strikers, I suppose!” “No matter who they are, at present,” replied Mary; “you will have an opportunity of facing them yet, and denying what they say.” “You are right. It is no matter. They are a pack of liars. I tell you I didn’t see Tom Roylance the whole of Friday evening.” “Then you will have to explain a very awkward circumstance,” replied Mary; “and just say how a handkerchief which Tom gave you was found in the mill on Friday night.” “Oh! was a handkerchief found in the mill? A handkerchief which Tom gave me? It wouldn't be a very wonderful thing, surely, if I were to drop a handkerchief in the place where I spend all the work hours of my life. I see no awkward circumstance there. But why awkward, because 1 did not see Tom on that night? I don't understand you.” “Because if you deny you were with him, you will have to account for your time on that night.” “Bah! Mary,” said Savannah, with a contemptuous wave of her hand. “You are silly—and blind as well as silly. Tom has given me no handkerchief for me to lose in the mill. He has been fooling you; and having heard what I suppose is part of the case against him, he tries to shield himself behind me. His gift of handkerchief is just as real as his story about being with me—and that is no more 'than nonsense. Give up, and have done with him, lass—have done with him.” “Silence, Savannah!” cried Mary, excitedly and indignantly. “I wonder you are not ashamed to try and malign *1 a man who can’t defend himself. You are not content to say what you know to be untrue, but you must dare, to add to your falseness by cowardly insinuation. For shame!” Savannah laughed, loudly at this, ! and affected to be vastly amused; but she grew angry with sudden change. ‘•What do you mean? You dare to come here to me, presuming on your , pale face and sickly weakness, and ; beard me and tell me lam false. Look , nearer home, my girl. Go and ask that fine jailbird lover of yours for an . account of all his silly maunderings and doddering foolery with me. Get him to tell you the truth, instead of ; the lies he has been spinning out to cover his worse deeds, and then it’ll be ' time to come and talk to me about falseness.” She spoke with fierce and rising vehemence, her own words fanning the flame of her passion. “It’s no lie,” answered Mary, quite as hotly, her cheeks flaming and her eyes glowing with the last insinuations of the other. “You know that Tom has told nothing but the truth. You were with him on Friday evening till nearly eleven o’clock. You know it; and now, for some wicked purpose of your own, you are trying to deny it. Butthose who saw you together will j tell the truth.” “No one did see us,” answered Savannah, passionately, falling in her reckless temper into the unintentional trap wnich lay In Mary’s words. “There was not a soul about—” “There!.? cried Mary, “what did I say? There! you admit it. You were together. That shows it.” “I don’t admit it; I don’t admit anything,” said Savannah, blushing furiously in her confusion at having been caught in a contradiction. “I say it’s a lie. I say—” Then her manner changed instantaneously, and in place of the furious passion which had excited and moved her, she grew calm and quiet., save her ' eyes f which shone ominously as she looked at Mary. “Go away!” she cried, raising her hand and pointing to the door. “Go away while you are safe. I won’t answer for myself if you stop here another minute. Go!” “I will go. I am content. I have your admission, and that is what I wanted,” said Mary, as a parting shot. “Go,” was the reply, spoken in a harsh, repelling, hard voice. “And remember I have made no admission. I was not with that—murderer on Friday night, and that I swear. Now, go.” Mary went out from the interview gloomy enough and full of anger. What she had heard confirmed her opinion of Tom’s innocence, but at the same time showed her how great would be the difficulty of proving it. True or false, such evidence as Savannah would give would make it almost impossible for Tom to account for his time on the Friday night, and. she quite understood the immense importance of this. Out of the interview with Savannah came only one thought. She must in some way endeavor to find some evidence to corroborate the truth of Tom’s account of his -time and to prove the falseness of Savannah's denial. There was but one way to do that. She must find some one who had seen the two together Ajj the Friday evening. a 1 K-i ■ nfc

Some days passed, during which Mary made many fruitless inquiries with this object. On the Sunday evening, when she was walking slowly through the village street, thinking over the problem, she met Gibeon Prawle. He came again and spoke to her. “You're looking ill, Mary,” he said, and his voice had a ring of sympathy. “It's not more than I feel,” she said. She heard so few sympathetic voices now that his greeting was almost welcome. “You're worrying,” he continued. “I’m sorry. Are things looking any blacker?” “Why should they look black at all?” said Mary, guardedly. “Why, indeed?” he echoed. “I know no reason. I know nothing but what people say—about that, at any rate.” “What do they say?” asked the girl. “Chief thing as I've heard is that Tom was seen getting into the mill that night: but I don't believe it. Stands to reason that if anybody had been near enough to see him getting in in such a way they’d have raised some kind of row at the time. Beside, what would Tom want to get creeping in that way when he’d every right to go in by the mill gates.” Gibeon had evidently not heard of Tom's dismissal, thought Mary. “That's never been Tom's way, neither. I don’t like him, and that's straight; but I’ll never deny that when he means a thing he owns up to it straight and square, and devil take the consequences.” “What else do they say, Gibeon?” “Oh! some say he was seen to leave the mill; that he was noticed rushing through the village to his cottage; that he was doing all sorts of ridiculous things on the way—you know how people’s tongues run at such a time, but there’s naug’ht but wind in it all; for I've questioned everybody about the place whose name has been mentioned as having seen anything, and can't find a soul that saw him anywhere or any time the whole blessed evening, except the man who believes he caught him at the mill.. According to that it looks as if he’d jumped out of the clouds at that minute and jumped back again as soon as he’d finished.” Mary felt somewhat relieved at this news, despite her previous distrust of him.

“Did anyone see Savannah about that night?” she asked. “What?” cried the man in a tone that startled the girl. “What makes you ask that?” “Only curiosity—curiosity as to what she was doing that night.” “No, I don’t think anyone saw her. Oh, I think I see your meaning,” he exclaimed, as if an idea had occurred suddenly to him. “You think Savannah and Tom were together. Is that it?” “Yes, I thought so, perhaps,” said Mary, rather feebly. “I suppose it's no use asking you to trust me, is it, Mary?” he asked quickly reading her feeling in the manner of her answer. “You don’t think, I suppose, do you, that I should go straight to do a good turn to a man to whom only a week or two back I wanted to do a thundering bad one?” “Why do you take such an interest in this matter?” asked the girl, looking sharply and perhaps suspiciously into his face.

“Because you saved my life in that plucky way. It’s the truth, I swear it is, though I see you don’t believe it.” He said this a little doggedly. “You don’t feel inclined to trust me, I suppose, do you?” He asked the question in a half wistful, half shamefaced manner. “What is there to trust?” said the girl, indifferently. “I don’t know, of course,” he answered. “But there seems to be something about Savannah, for one thing, judging by what you said just now. Would you like me to make an inquiry or two about her? She was away over that week end, I know. Do you want to find out where she went? I dare say I could manage that. I wish you’d let me lend you a hand. I am quite as certain as you can be that Tom has had no hand in it.”

This declaration did more than anything else could have done to win the girl over. It was the only confident expression of faith in her lover’s innocence that she had heard from anyone. “Can I trust you, Gibeon?” she asked. “You can, Mary. I’ll do my best to help you. I promise you that fair and square.” Mary thought for a moment, and then half-impulsively gave her hand. “I believe you mean straight by me,” she said. “I will trust you. Here’s proof of it. Tom says that he was with Savannah that night; and she denies it. That ihust be proved, or otherwise we may never be able to prove what we believe—that he is innocent. You do believe it, Gibeon, don’t you?” “’Tisn’t so much that I believe it, my lass,” he said, slowly and with great emphasis. “I know it. I know he’s innocent; and, what’s more, I mean to prove it. You know what happened in the barn that night. I was all against the infernal plot that was laid against him. Well, I believe there’s another now, quite as devilish and much more cunning. And if you’ll trust me, we’ll jest turn the penny t’other side up, and make it heads to our side. Now tell me the rest about Savannah.” She told him what Tom had said, and he asked a question or two. With that he left her, and Mary was full of perplexity at what he had said.

CHAPTER XXIV. GIDEON I'BAWLE SUSPECTED. The more closely Mary thought over Gibeon Prawle’s meaning in saying that he knew Tom was innocent, the more puzzled was she. If he epoke the truth it’was clear that there were but two ways in which he could know. Either he was with Tom, or had seen him sufficiently often during that night to know that he could not have gone to the mill, or he knew who had committed ths crime. This began to take hold of her thoughts, and Ae asked herself whether his knowledge eould possibly mean that he himself had had soma connection with it She w«s very lotlrto enter-

tain that suspicion of him, m hl* manner to her, and especially his ready and strong assertion -of Tom s innocence, hail softened her dislike and lessened her distrust of him. But the problem remained: Why should he take such an interest in the matter? There had never been love lost between hire and Tom Roylance. Was it that he wished to turn away from himself all thought of suspicion by showing ■ great zeal in getting Torn acquitted? Two days passed without a sign of him. So far as she could tell he was not even in the village; and thus the trust and the hopes which, despite her first judgment, she had placed upon him and his help, waned as the day came round for the adjourned hearing of the charge against Tom. On the eve of the day Reuben Gorringe came to her at the cottage, and Mary's heart sank within her, knowing that he had come for an answer to his question. “To-morrow is the hearing, Mary,” .he said, after he had been in the cottage a few minutes, “and I have been asked to give my evidence.” “Weil?” she said, interrogatively. “What am I to say?” he asked again. “What do you wish to say?” “Nay, lass, that rests with you, not with me.”

“I do not see how it rests with me,” said Mary. "it cannot be necessary for me to go all over the same ground as last time I was here. I told you then how it was. I have not bothered you siuce; for I knew how you might be puzzled and worried, and 1 didn’t want to hurry you. But the time has come how when we must decide.” “But I cannot decide yet," said Mary. “I cannot make up my mind. I cannot see that one who is innocent can run any risk of being punished for what he did not do. The law is just.” “Aye, my lass, that’s it. The law is just,” said Gorringe in a deep, strong voice. “Then it will not find him guilty of what he did not do,” she added. “Oh! dear, I do not know what to say. If he can prove his innocence, you do not want this promise. Why not wait and see?” she pleaded. “How can we wait and see? Either he did or did not do this. The evidence which I have all points to the fact that he did. If that evidence is kept back, what proof have I of hiS innocence, supposing the law finds him innocent? None; none. That is the point. Could I trust you to a man whom I feared might be a—might have done what he is said to have done? Could I love you if I did such a thing?” • “But something might yet happen to let him prove his innocence, despite what you think such strong evidence against him.” “Might,” echoed the man. “Might! You have had a week to look for this. Have you found a single shred or scrap of evidence that will make that proof?” “I have his denial. That is enough for me,” she answered, confidently. [TO BE CONTINUED.)