Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 February 1891 — THE MASTER OF THE MINE. [ARTICLE]

THE MASTER OF THE MINE.

By Rebert Buchanan.

CHAPTER XVlH— Contixuxd. *•1 have been expecting thia for a tong tine, and it has oome. Well, so much the better. I warn you, however, that I shall do my duty, and let the oompany know the exact state of aftelrs.” Be turned to Johnson, and I aaw the twe exchange a significant smile; thee his face hardened as hs replied contemptuously: •You will, of course, do as you pteaas; only oblige me by getting out of my employment as quickly as poon •It will be a good riddance!" mutter■od Johnson, breaking in .for the first time ‘ -Trelawney haa always been a croaker.’ The fellow's insolent leer provoked me far more than his master’s sangfroid. •TH croak to some tune,” I cried teeing him. “if you presume to talk to OMB —Preaum, indeed*!" he repeated, turning white with fear or malice. ~'Taint much presumption, I guess, to take down a young oock-o’-the-walk who puts oh airs aa if he was a gentleman. If Mr. George had listened to my advice, he'd have got rid of you long ago!” •Come along, Johnson." said Red* wth; “he’s not worth talking to." But I clenched my fists and blocked iKs way. I suppose there was somei thing in my face which looked ugly, ter the two men recoiled before me. Several of the miners, attracted by our high words, had now gathered, and were looking on in astonishment. “I know well an honest man is not wanted here," I said. *Tve known that for many a long day. Like master. like man. You, air, want a scoundrel to do your dirty work; and here he is, ready made, to your hand r-as mean and cowardly a scoundrel as ever drew breath.” ‘•Out of the way. you ruffian!" cried Redruth, lifting his cane.

But hejcnew better than to strike me; he knew that, if he had dona so, I would have thrashed him within an inch of his life; and he knew, too, that sot one, man tiaere would have rais&d a finger to protect him, though he was the master of the mine. But the presence of the onlookers, I suppose. made his companion foolhardy; for stepping forward, livid with passion, he shook his fist in my 'faee. “Who are you calling a scoundrel?" tee cried. “Do you know who I am? I'm overseer of this here mine, and jou. you're a beggar, that’s what you are! Why, darn you! I could eat you up and spit you out, and twenty more like you!”

He had proceeded thus far, garnishing his address with innumerable expletives, which will not bear transcription, when, without more parley, unable to resist the provocation of his close proximity, I quietly knocked him down. As he felt George Redruth sprang towards me, and struck at me with his cane; but I tore the cane from his hand, broke it into pieces, aad flung It away. J •Take care, sir!” I said; ‘‘l may hurt you too, if you go too far.” He drew back trembling. “You shall smart for this, Trelawwey? Before the day is out you shall lie fa gaol!"

“You know where to find me.’’ I answered, and then, without another word, I walked away. Il waa not for hours afterwards that I realized what I had done; and even lhen I am afraid I did nqt regret my hasty conduct Young and rash, I did not fear to faoe the world, though the mine was my bread, and I had no other means of maintenance. As for Bodruth’s threat of invoking the law against me, nothing came of it. Doubtless, as his own sacred person had not suffered, he thought it best to hold his tongue. CHAPTER XIX. THE NEW OVEBBEEE. The news of my dismissal from the mine was received by my aunt with infinite wailing. The poor soul, knowing that for some time past I had been the mainstay of the house, saw nothing before her but misery and starvation; indeed, she was for going straight to Redruth House and appealing to -the master, but I checked her. •’Don't grieve, aunt,” I said. “It 'will all be ’right, by-and-by. Sa/ 1 am dismissed from the mine—what Mthen? The mine isn’t all the world. I shall get something, never fear.” But my aunt shook her head. ■**ll be like young folk to make light eP things. When you’m a bit awlder, Hugh, you'll see things as I do—trouble ahead. Tis vary easy to talk, but what is there in the village but the mine?" —But I’m going up to London, aunt.” “To Lunnon! Lawdsave the lad!— and what for should ’urn gaw to Lunwon?"

-*I am going up to see the company, wed tell them what’s going on at the mine. Keep your mind easy till I come % ck. aunt. 'Twill, maybe, all be right then." ■ r But my aunt continued to cry quietly. and grieved as bitterly as if she | knew of the dark clouds which were gathering above. As for my uncle, he sat and listened, and made no remark whatever, JL -con duded he did not understand, so I made no attempt to trouble him at all. There was no time to be lost, and as soon, therefore, as I had finished my task of .comforting my aunt, I be* gan to turn over in my mind what it would be best for me to do. I was as fully conscious of the gravity of tho situation as my aunt herself, though I .had thought fit to make light of it in

order to lesson her pain. To be tamed from the mine meant facing starvation—unless 1 co Jd find n similar situation to the one 1 had tost; the only way to facilitate thia being to aee the company, who might consent to place me over some other min* Bej sides, it was necessary that I should I Seo them and plead the cause of the wretched creatures who dafly faced death at George Redruth's command. Having fully made up my mind that the journey must be taken, I resolved to starton the following morning, and began making my preparations accordingly.

During the years that I had been overseer of the mine my salary had not been large, but I had been able to put by a small sum weekly. My first care was to break into thia, to put into my pocket-book sufficient for my journey, and give a sum to my aunt. ••Don’t be afraid to use it,” I said; “there is more yet; and before it's all gone I’ll have work, please God!" My hopefulness, somehow, soon infected my aunt, and she set about putting my things together with a brighter face. She dried her tears, and talked quite cheerful of my going.

••They do say,” she said, “that everything’s for the best, and maybe ’tis saw naw, though us can’t just see IL Mayhap you’ll meet our Annie in London and bring her back to us, Hugh.” •'lt’s more than likely,” I returned. ••Our black cloud won't last forever; the silver lining must be coming round.” When all was ready, I stepped down to the village to tell John Rudd to call for me on the morrow, when he was to start before daybreak. Having done my errand. I lit my pipe and strolled slowly back to the cottage. It was a splendid night. All the earth, hardened by the keen touch of frost, was flooded by the brilliant moon-rays; and the sky was thick with stars. All was so qtllet and peaceful, I could hear the click-clack of my footsteps on the frosty road. My mind was sorely troubled; I walked up and down the road until my pipe was finished, then I knocked out the burnt ashes upon the ground and turned to re-enter the cottage, when I started back with a half-suppressed cry. There, not very far from me, standing in the shadow of one of the laurel bushes in Annie's garden, was the tall figure of a woman. She came quickly towards me, and laid her hand upon my arm.

“ “Madeline!" I murmured, for it was indeed she, dressed in her evening dress, with her mantle thrown lightly over her head and shoulders, and her dear face raised wistfully to mine. "Mr, Trelawney," she said quietly,” “is it true that you have been dismissed from the mine?" “Yes; it is quite true, Miss Graham.” “Oh, why will you not be as you were just now, and call me Madeline?” she cried passionately. “Why have all those years come and gone since we were children, and left us so far apart, Mr. Trelawney? Hugh, let us be children again! I was your help and solace once, let me be so to-night!” She had spoken truly; why should a few years separate us? Once before she had offered me her friendship and I had accepted it; why not accept it now? I took her hand and kissed it “You shall be the tame to me now as you were then,” I answered; “you shall be my friend."

I think she understood me. She made no reply, but for a moment .she turned her head aside; when she was as calm as the moonrays which lay all about her. “Tell me what has happened," she said, “and what you are going to do." “Very little has happened," I replied. “I have got my dismissal, which I have all along expected, and I' am going away." “Mr. Trelawney, it waamorethan sympathy Which brought me here tonight. I want to ask you a question." “Yes?" “Jf my cousin offers you the post again, will you take it?" I saw in a moment what she meant: that she would intercede for me; that the fact of my being reinstated would give that villain George Redruth a stronger hold over her; so I answered firmly: “No; the situation will not be offered to me, and if it was I should refuse it . ”

“Your uncle and aunt are dependent upon you, are they not?” “Not entirely. My uncle is sufficiently recovered now to resume his work. For the last week he has been employed at the mouth of the mine. If my sins are not visited on his head, and he is allowed to remain they will do very well. As for myself, I am young and strong; there is no fear for me.” She made no answer; and I, looking at her. noticed for the first time how thinly she was clad. “Madeline,” I said, “you will get your death; let me take you back.” I drew the shawl closer about her shoulders, put her hand upon my arm, and led her away. ‘•Hugh,” she said presently, “you have not told me the cause of all this trouble. Why have you and my cousin disagreed so terribly?” The very fact that he was her cousin sealed my lips. | ‘There is nothing," I said, “but what had best be kept between man and man." “Then you absolutely refuse to make any concession?” •‘I refuse to receive any favor from Geo re Redruth.” •Or from me?” “From you, Madeline?” “Yes. lam rich, you know—very . rich; and now that you are in trouble , I might help you.” “No,” I answered quickly; “don't I think of it. It is impossible." I 1 Impossible?” she replied. ■The

word frieodHtip to you means notefag," ■•lt means that you may give me your sympathy. lam gratofai for that, but I can not accept money from you. ” I walked with her as far as the entrance to the' grounds surrounding Redruth House, then I left her. Her eyes were full of tears as she said good-bye. and her little hand clung to mine with a persistence which well-nigh unmanned me. I was too much beside myself to return to the cottage, so, far about half a mile I followed the road which led to-the mine. It was too late, there was not a living soul abroad it seemed to me; yet, as I returned to retrace my steps, I came face to face with a man who had evidently been following dose upon my heels. It was Johnson.

Madeline’s softening influence was still upon me. Yet at sight of this evil face it seemed to fade, and rite within me all that was worst in my soul. He paused blocking my way. and sneerlngly addressed me: •‘l* guess, young man,” he said, “you’ll get into worse trouble before you’re done. Just you let the governor see you as I saw you with Miss Graham to-night” The mention of her name by his foul lips aroused me to frenzy. ••You scoundrel!” I cried, “mention that lady’s name again and by Heaven I’ll strike you dead where you standi” “Oh," he sneered, “killing’s your game, is it? Repeat that to-morrow before witnesses, young man, and your doom’s sealed.”

He passed me by, and walked on towards the mine, while I,glad at heart to be safely away from him, walked with some speed towards home. I found my aunt alone; I asked for my uncle. • *He be gone back to the mine Hugh,” she returned. “But dawn’t ’ee sit up for ’un, lad. I dare say Jim Rivers ’ll bring un hame." As I knew I should have to be ready to join John Rudd at five o’clock in the morning. I took my aunt’s advice and went to bed; and so soundly did I sleep, that I heard nothing wathever of my uncle’s return. When I awoke it was still pitch dark. I struck a light, and found that it was four o’clock. I therefore got up and began to prepare for my journey. I went about my work as quietly as possible, hoping'to disturb no one; but shortly after I entered the kitchen, my uncle appeared fully dressed for the day. He looked so white and strange that, for a moment, I was startled into the belief that something was the matter. As nothing seemed to have transpired, however, QI concluded it was sorrow at parting with me. My God, how the memory of that white wan face came back to me in after days! It was the memory of It, and of the patient, pitiful eyes, which cealed my lipe when one word might prove my salvation. When John Rudd made his appearance, and my aunt came out of the bedroom, and began crying on my shoulder, I saw the wan, sad eyes of uncle still fixed upon me. As * I left the cottage, I looked back and found them gazing after me still.

GAITER XX. IN LONDON. On reaching London, I secured a room in a small coffe-house in Soho; and, having deposited my luggage, I started off at once to offices of the mining company. It was three o’clock and I counted I might just arrive before they closed. I was astonished, on arriving at my destination, to find that the ‘‘Offices” consisted only of couple of grimy rooms in a side street off Chancery Lane. I was received by a dilapidated and somewhat dirty old clerk, who was crouched upon a high stool and scribbling away at a desk. He informed me that the head of the firm was. ate» that moment in his rooml I was taken to him and made haste to state my case. I soon found that my presence there was comparatively useless. Like mas-> ter, like man, they say. and certainly George Redruth, in forming a com- 1 pany to conduct the mine, had been careful to select men whose views accorded with his own; besides, my character had preceded me; they had been forewarned of my visit, and to all my complaints they had nothing to say. Sick at heart, I left the place and walked slowly back toward Charing Cross. What my next move would be I did not know. It was certain I could do nothing for the Cornish miners; and since they could not starve they must be left to trudge on with that grim I skeleton Death forever by their side, I Pondering thus, I made my way slowly along the crowded streets, abstractedly gazing at the sea of faces surrounding me. It was Saturday afternoon and the Strand was thronged. The hum of the busy crowd distracted me. I turned, intending to pass down one of the side streets and gain the Embankment, when suddenly I stepped face to face with a woman who was coming towards me, and uttered a cry. It was my cousin Annie! But so changed was she that I hardly knew her. She was dressed like a lady and looked like one; but her face was pale, her eyes looked troubled and sad. She must have been walking rapidly, for as I turned to faee her she almost fell into my arms. The cry I gave attracted her attention; she looked into my faoe and knew me. She paused, uncertain what to do. My sudden appearanee there was so unexpected that it completely unnerved her. For a moment she seemed about to fly; then, recovering herself, she stood her ground. “Hugh!” she excalmed. -You here?’’ “Yea,’* I answered, sternly enough. “I am here.’’ I felt no joy in meeting her. Had she come to mA poor, despised, with the taiat of sin upon her. I should

huu* taken her to mgr arm* and saM, •<oa poor, repeataat child, come home;" but when she stood before me fa her fine raiment my heart hardened, for I thought of the heartbroken old people whom left My . appearance - must have been strange, for I began to attract some attention, when Annie took me by the arm and led me down the side street I had intended to take. We passed on, never uttering a word, until we came to the Embankment. Then she let go my arm and spoke. “Hugh," she said, “did you come to London to look tor me?” “No. I came on other business, but I promised to seek you and take you back.” •I cannot go home, Hugh; not yet," she said sadly. ••Not yet?” I repeated. “Will it ever be better for you than it is now?” “Yes, Hugh; and soon, I hope, I shall be able to go and cause them no trouble.” I shrugged my shoulders and half turned away, when she laid her hand upon my arm again and said. “Dear Hugh, you have never once taken my hand; you have not looked at me as you would have done some months ago. You think I have brought shame upon you all; but, indeed, it is not so bad as that—l am a lawful wife.” •‘A lawful wife? Whose wife?" “Ah! do not ask me that. I cannot tell you. But lam a wife; and some day, very soon, I shall be acknowledged. Hugh, will you not take my hand, and say that you forgive me?"(To be continued.)