Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 January 1891 — THE MASTER OF THE MINE. [ARTICLE]

THE MASTER OF THE MINE.

By Buchanan.

CHAPTER IX. -il ajojie’s .cowrassrow. They were all in bed when I pot back that night, but as! passedthe door of Annie's room I fancied I heard the eound of robbing. I knocked softly but !-he made no answer, so I coneluded that I must have been mistaken ana that she was asleep. < The next morning she attended at breakfast as usual. She looked w little pale, and now and again glanced uneasily and rather questioningly at me. When I rose to go she put on her bonnet, saying: •*I am going a bit of the way with Hugh, mother,” and thon, somewhat to my surprise, she came along into the road with me. When we were fairly away from the houses and pass, lng across the moor, she put her hand on my arm and said softly: ••Hugh, dear Hugh, I have been out before this morning. I have seen the young masteY:" . 1 suppose my face darkened ominously, for she hurriedly continued: 4 ‘‘Hugh, you must not get angry—indeed you must not I did it for the best. I was afraid, after what happened last night, that he would dismiss you; ancUhe would have done, but I baveinterceded, and now all will be as h was before." j “You have interceded for me!’’ I said. ‘ Then you were wrong, Annie; if he wishes to dismiss me. let him. I have other means of earning my bread." j For answer to this Annie employed a stronger medium than words —3ha cried. Now, tears always 4|sarm me: all 1 could do was what I did. soothe my cousin, kiss her pretty cheek, call myself a brute and avow that she w as the dearest, sweetest little Woman in the wo:Id. Under this process Annie came round, and smiled sadly up at me through her tears. “You promise,” she said, “to goon just the same as usual, and to 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 me.” she replied- “Just think, Hugh, if you two quarrel again, and you are dismissed, everybody will know why it ait came about—and my mother and father too. Ah, Hugh, dear Hugh, for my sake’’’ She folded her little hands over my arm and looked up into my laco like a supplicating child. As I looked down into her bright aye 3, now fast SLling again with tears the thought came into my mind to do what her mother and father wished mo to do. I thought of- saying; “Annie, give roe a right to protect you. IrCt me call you wife, and I will agree to all you say.” But something held me, and the golden moment pass. For a couple of days or so the master kept away and things went on at the works pretty much as usual; but on the fourth day he strollod down. He talked a good deal to Johnson, but never addressed one word to me. He looked at me. however, and the look he gave made -me wonder what strange influence Annie possessed when she could induce him to keep in •is employment one whom he so cordially hated. I, however, took no notice, since I had given my promise to Annie, and an onlooker would never bave guessed that anything sinister was going on. How long this state of things might have lasted it is impossible to say, but It was most unexpectedly and suddenly changed. One day my aunt, having a little •hopping to do, and eager perhaps for a day’s Outing, determined to sgo to Falmouth. She started off in the morning in John Rudd's wagon, and left my cousin to keep house. Now, it had seemed to me that Annie had looked peculiarly dull that morning, so towards afternoon. I determined to take an hour, and to hur. ry back to the cottage to see how she was getting on. As I drew near to the cottage door, I was astonished to hear noises—the one loud and angry, the other soft and pleading. When I entered the kitchen my amazement increased ten fold. An eldrlv lady—none-other. indeedthan old Mrs. Redruth, George Red, ruth’s widowed mother—was standing in the middle of the room, while my cousin Annie, crying bitterly, was actually on her knees before her! Mrs. Redruth 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 beloved. Indeed, it was averred by many that every hard dead committed by either her husband or her aoa might bave been traced to her influence. For tho rest she was a tall thin woman, with powerful aquiline features and a face of ghastly pallor. Amazed at her presence there. I entered uacerimoniously : but both were so intent upon themselves that they were actually unaware of my approach. The old woman was speaking: “Your tears don't deceive me," she said. lam not a man and a fool. I am a mother, and I know when danger hreatens my child, and I say that you are doing your best to entangle my son. But take care. George Redruth ■hall not bo sacrificed; sooner than that I will ruin you—do you hear?--ruin you!” “Oh my lady!” robbed Annie, “will you listen?” j “No," she returned, “I will not! Listen to yod—when every word you utter must be a lie! I have seen you with my son, Cease to follow h.m, or I will oxpo-e you before evory soul in the village!" . :.. hhe turned to leave the cottage, and

came face io face with me. She paused abrurtly, opened her lips, as if about to speak; then she changed her mind, and without uttering a word passed out As for myself, I had beeni too much stupefied to say a word, and I stood now, like a great bear, looking at my cousin, who, robbing .piteously, had sunk into a chair, Then suddenly, while gazing at her thus, it seemed to me that the time had come for me to speak. I went unto har. raised her from the chair, and folded her in my arms. ... ~~ “Ann'c," I said. “Annie, my dear,, let there be an end to this. Give me the right to protect you from all this trouble that has come upon you lately Become my wife.” She started and stared at me like a frightened child. •‘Your wife, Hugh!” she said. ‘‘Your wife!" “Yes, Annie," I answered. “My wife—that is, if you care for me enough, my dear.” At this she fell to crying afresh, and clung to me tenderly. “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.” Iler words cut me to tho heart, for I felt their truth. “Perhaps,” I said, "I don’t romance as some young fellows might, but I eh ail make as good a husband. I have always been fond of you, Annie, over since that night, years ago, when I first came here and you gave me a welcome. We have ever heen excel® lent friends, haven’t we? And now tell me if wo shall bo more than friends?” the shook her head. “No. Hugh: be what you have always been—myown dear brother.” • •Is it because you think I don’t care for you. Annie?” “Ah, no!” she 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 nevor be man and wife.” I looked into her eyes.and I thought I read their meaning. Annie did not care for me; her heart was with another man, and that man far above her. I think I see those who read these lines smiling at my ignorance or my folly, and asking, was it possible that all 1 had seen or heard awakened in my mind no suspicion of any darker wrong lurking in my little cousin’s; path? Yes; it was quite possible. Grown man as I was, I had no experience whatever of the world. I would have trusted Annie in any company,or in any place, and I never dreame4 for a moment that there could be any danger to one so good. As my thought travels back to that time, 1 reproach myself again and again for my own blindness. What worlds of sorrow it would have saved if i had been less unsuspicus—if I had only loved poor Annie more! - - CHAPTER X. THE LETTER. But after this I watched Annie a good deal, and I soon discovered she had a great and growing trouble on ner 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. Her mother and father noticed this, too; but they attributed the change to quite another cause. They were good, honest folk, who could only consider one project at a time; and as for several months past their minds had been occupied solely with the idea of a marriage between Annie and myself, they naturally assumed disagreements between us two to be the cause of their daughter’s depression. I had not the heart to undeceive them. X determined, however, to speak to Annie again, and ask for some further explanation of this mystery. One_aftemoon, 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 She looked pale: but ready to become very angry. “Hugh!” she said, before I had time to open my lips, “where be Awnie?" Had 1 been able at that moment to produce my cousin, she would certainly have been rated very soundly; whereas I shook ray head and said, “1 don’t know!” The rising anger entirely dissapered, and her face grew paler. ••But you’m seen her to-day? she continued. “No. When I left this morning you were all abed.” At this my aunt fairiy broke down, and moaned between her 6obs, “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 enough, After my uncle and I had left for the mine, my aunt rose, expecting to find the kitchen fire alight as usual, and Annie busy makthings neat for the day. To her astonishment. the kite,hen was empty, the ashes iu the grate were grey, and all was in disorder as it had been on the night before. She called Annie, but got no answer; she searched the cottzge, but failed to find her; then, concluding that she had gone to the village on some errand, she set about doingthe work herself. Several hours passed away; and, as there was still no sign of the missing gid, my aunt began to grow extremely alarmed. She searched through and around the house with no affect. 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 time, she returned to the house and looked again

[in Annie's room. Suddenly her at- | traded to the bed; she looked at it, and found that, although it w 4» in disorder, it had not been slept in that night. Having told her tale, my aunt looked at me, hoping that I might be able to say her fears for bet 1 child were. unfounded. I could not; the utmost j could do was to counseLsilence,and try to buoy her up with hope. This J did. —lAitnaay be ail right, atmt,* IsaTd; “therefore it will be much better to keep onr fears to ourselves. Don’t say anything to my uncle there will be 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 hornet But the day was finished for me. After my aunt was gone, I could do nothing but think of Annie: tho worst fears struggled to take possession of me, but 1 diligently thrust thmeaway. I would not believe ill of my cousin. About five o’clock.my undo came up from the mine, and 1 proposed we should knock off work for the day, and stroll home together. My uncle was in singularly good spirits, and during our walk 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 Ilooked anxiously about me. My aunt was moving about preparing tea, and she was alone. “Whar be the little woman?” asked my uncle as we sat down to our meal. X saw my aunt’s face grow very pale, but she turned her head away and answered as carelessly as possible: “She be gawn out!" “Beant she coming in to tao?” “Naw!” The answer was conclusive, and the meal went on; my uncle eating heartily, while I was scarcely able to sip my cup of tea. When the meal was over, my uncle, according to hisusual custom, went to his seat beside the fire and lit his pipe. Heiiad 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; than the door was opened, and in came John Rudd. He had a parcel for my aunt, which he delivered; he chatted for a few minutes, then he prepared to go. His hand was on the latch of the door, when he paused and looked back: “Say, missus,” said he, “whar be Miss Awnie gawn to?” My uncle looked up curiously; my aunt’s cheeks grew as white as newfallen snow. “Whar be she gawn to??” she repeated helplessly. “Iss!” continued Rudd, “I seen her this marnining in Falmouth, but she were in a mighty hurry and didn’t see me. She were dawn on the jatty. and she went aboard the steamer for Partsmouth.” Mr. Rudd paused, thunderstruck at the effect of bis words. My aunt, thorougly 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. “What be all this about mv Awnie?’ he cried. “Speak, come’un.” My aunt continued to sob, John Rudd stared in a mystified manner at one and all. “Thera’s nothing to alarm anybody,” I said; “it’s all right.” But my uncle, who was growing terribly excited, hardly seemed to hear me. “If thar be aught wrong wi” my little woman,” he cried, “tell me; Faint a child to be petted, nor a fool to be kept i’ the dark. Speak, tell me what ’tis all about!” So we told him all we knew, 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 the 6cnse of the situation, and dimly wondering why his wife received the news so violently. In his simplicity, he did not guess as yet. that Annie’s flight might have its origin in secret guilt and shame. But when John Rudd was gone, and we were left to ourselves, I looked at my uncle 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 I had always disliked the young master, and it was bjt natural I should credit him with a dastardly deed; but he himself refused to believe for one moment in the young mun'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 he resolved to accompany me. On asking for the master we were shown into the library; five minutes later the young man himself walked into the room. The sight of him deprived me utterly of the power of speech; my uncle looked at me reproachfully, and was silent too. George Redruth, who had just been dining, wore evening dress and had never looked handsomer or more thoroughly at ease in his life. “Well,” he said, glancing at us pleasantly—he was evidently in an after-dinner mood—“is there anything I edn do for you?” “Master Jarge,” said my unce, earnestly. “we’m in trouble, 6lr, in sore trouble." “Indeed! I’m sorry to hear it” “I knawed you’d be sorry, sir," con*

tinued my uncle, ‘‘though ’taln’t no affair ot your’n, Sod knaws; but my daughter, sir, my little Annie, she be run’d away.” “What!" he exclaimed. “Runaway from home, do you mean? But why come to me? What can I do?” “Naught; you ean’t do naught at all.” said my uncle; “that’ll just it.” ~ —lt was an awkward situation for us all, and we all felt it. My untie turned his hat nervously round and round. 'whTte the y’ohhg niasFer grew more and more uncomfortable as every minute weht by. I felt that some explanation was demanded, and I gave it. “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 detain me.” ~ He opened the door, and we, seein g that further conversation would be useless, left the room and house. During the walk home my 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 the night I heard mv 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 fire, I looked at him and scarcely knew him; his face was white and lined like that of an old mnn. He was quite calm, but there was a sad look in his eyes which spoke 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 his head. “Naw, lad,” said he, “’tis best left alawn; she went o’ her awn free will, and maybe some day she’ll come back, and till she docs we’ll wait, we’ll wait.” I felt he was right; it was better to wait. Evon if we had been rich folk, w hich we were not, it would have be on difficult to find her; as it was, the matter was hopeless. So we went on as usual with the old life. And yet it was not the old life, for the 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 as follows: * ‘Mr Dear Parents, Do not grivo. about me, for I am quite well and in want of nothing. Do not attempt to find me, it would be useless; but I shall soon come back, with God’s blessing, and then 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 forgive me, for the sake of the happy days that are gone away. Your loving daughter, Annie." 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 It t'li 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 be continued.)