Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 28, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 March 1891 — THE MASTER OF THE MINE. [ARTICLE]

THE MASTER OF THE MINE.

By Robert Buchanan.

CHAPTER XXlV— Continue*. I shall never forget that journey to me it seemed interminable, but to poor Annie it ended over-quickly, I fear. At starting, she, took her place inside the wagon, upon the bed which John Rudd had made up for her, and there •he stayed until the end. As we drew nearer and nearer to St. Gurlptt’s. her agitation increased terribly; and when at last John pu led up within a hundred yards of the ootlage gate, she began to cry pitifully* and beg to be taken away. I soothed her as well as I ouuld, and, having left her in the ran. I walked on to the cottage to •prepare the way for her reception, I entered the gate, weat softly up to the cottage, and looked In at the kitchen window. It was quite dark outside; but inside the kttchen lights were burning, and a fire was blazing on the hearth. Before the fire, seated in his arm chair, was my uncle. Hla lace looked wniter than ever, his hair was like snow; on his knees he held the big family Bible, which he was reading, tracing the lines with the forefinger of his right hand. I looked around the kitchen for another figure—that of my aunt She was not there. I hastened back to the wagon, lifted out Annis, more dead than alive, poor child; and half led, half carried her to the kitchen door. ••Go in. Annie,” I whispered, ‘‘your father is there? Then I opened the door, and, leaving her on the threshold, returned to my post of observation at the window to see what took place. -

For a moment Annie swerved and half turned, as if about to fiy, then she laid her hand upon the door and sobbed ••FatherP I saw my uncle start nervously and drop the book upon his knee; then he rose, and with a piercing cry of joy,_ heldfprthhisarms, What followed I don’t know. I rushed to the kitchen door, and when I reached it 1 saw poor Annie lying half-fainting upon her father's breast. CHAPTER XXV. FATHER AND CHILD, It was a sight to bring tears to the Byes of a strong man. The poor old father, white-haired, haggard, trembling like a leaf, and feverishly clasping the child who had been the darling, of his days. He looked into her face; he smoothed back her hair with his wrinkled hand; ho murmured her ■ame, while, sobbing and moaning, she clung to him and entreated his forgiveness. I stood looking on, almost terrified. As 1 did so my aunt brushed past me, and entering the kitchen uttered aery my aunt brushed past me and uttered a cry of surprise. “Annie!” The tone of her voice was harsh and •old, and her face was stern indeed. Releasing herself from her father’s embrace; my cousin turned to her mother with outstretched arms. ••Yes, mother; I have come back.” But my aunt, with the same stern expre-sion, repulsed her, and the poor girl fell back with a pitiful moan. ‘•Mother, mother dear! won’t you •peak to me?” ••Bide a bit! Wha brought ’ee? Did you ootne back alone?” Annie turned her eyes pitifully towards me. •We came home together,” I said, stepping forward. “Let me look at ’ee!” cried my aunt, suddenly approaching her daughter, who hid her faoe and sobbed. “What! can't 'ee look your mother in the face? Naw? Then away wi’ ee, for you'm na daughter o' mine!” My uncle, who had sunk trembling into a chair, leoked up amazed, as she continued: ••Look at your father! Look at the shame and trouble you'm brought upon him! A year ago he were a happy man and I were a happy woman; but now, look at us both now! Better to be dead and buried than to come back yar wi' thy shame upon'ee, -bringing sorrow and disgrace on folk that once held up their heads wi’ the best!” I was lost in amazement at ir.y aunt’s severity, for never for a moment had I anticipated such a reception. Hitherto, indeed, my uncle had seemed to take the affair most to heart, and it was his attitude toward Annie that I had most dreaded. But the parts of the two seemed to be reversed—my aunt was the stern man. my uncle the gentle and forgiving woman. •Come, come, aunt!” I said, ‘ you must not talk to Annie so. There has been trouble, no doubt, but it is ail over now, and everything oan be explained.” But my aunt was inflexible. T

••Wtar ha.- she been all this while, teli me that? She left o' her awn free will, an' she comes back o' her ash free will: but till I knaw what she ha' done I’ll neer sit down or break bread wi' her acaln." “I told you how it would be!” cried Annie, addressing her words to me but still hiding her 1 face. -'Let me go! ] wish I had never come!” And Bhe made a hurried movement toward the door, as if to fly. Seeing this my aunt relented a little, though her manner was still harsh enough. At this moment my uncle rose. “Annie.' 1 he said, “dawn't heed mother. She dawn’t mean it my lass, she don’t mean it. Whate’r you’m done, this is your home and you are ourchild —our little lass.” Then, turning to his wife.he added. •‘Speak to her, wife! speak kindly to her! Maybe she’ll tell ’ee all her trouble. His broken tones so pleading and pitiful, melted the mother’s With a wild erv she sank into a chair the tears streaming down her face. ••Oh! Annie. Annie! may the Lord forgive ’ee for what you ha’ done!” Suddenly ' mastering herself, my

cousin uncovered her face and looked at her mother, Then, drying her tears and speaking with tremulous determination, she said: “I know I have beeti wicked I know i Should never have gone away. But if you have suffered so have 1. I never meant to bring shame and trouble upon you or father, I love you both too well for that. But if you can’t forgive me, if your heart is stlLl bitter against me (and God knows I don’t blame you, for I deserve it all), I had better go Away. I don’t want to be a trouble or a burdeu. I have made my bed I know and I must lie upon it; and if I had not met my cousin Hugh I should tiever have come home.” “Tell methe truth Annie Pendragon,’’ said my aunt “What took thee from home? Was it him as is lying, dead and murdered, in his grave?” Annie opened her eyes in wonder. My uncle started* and then, curious to say, averted his Face, but stood listening. - >: ■ -

••What do you mean, mother?” ‘•What daw I mean?” echoed my aunt sharply. "Whatshould I mean, Annie Pendragon? Folk say you did leave St, Gurlott’s wi’ a man. Were that man him that is dead?” “I have already asked her that question,” and she denies it— . I saw my uncle Start again. He was stfll eagerly listening. •No mother."said Annie firmly. “Naw? Ye were seen together i’ Falmouth; all the folk think the over, seer took ’ee away fro’ home,” ••Then it is not true.” My uncle turned his face, which had been troubled before; was now ghastly beyond measure. “Annie, Annie, my lass!” he crie'd. ‘•Dawn’tdeny it! Speak the truth and we’ll forgie ’ee. It were Measter Johnson wha’ brought thee to your trouble—say it were, Annie, say it were!” His voice was pleading and full of entreaty. I alone of all there guessed why. But Annie shook ht r head sadly as she replied: “No, father- Him you speak of was nothing to me and never harmed me by word or deed. ” “John Rudd saw ye together i’ Falmouth,” cried my aunt; “and after that, the overseer were away fordav 8. Why will 'ee lie to her that bore ’ee, Annie Pencragon.-’ ‘•I am not lying mother. lam telling you the Gospel-truth. Fh h r.she won’t believe me! But you will won’t you? God knows I would not deceive you, after what has passed!” But my uncle had turned away, like a man mortally wounded, and leaning against the lintel of the window, was looking wildly out. “Dawn’t speak to me!” he said; ‘•dawn’t my lass I can’t bear it!” I thought it time to interfere; so gently taking Annie by the band. I led her to my aunt, an I made them shake hands and kiss each other. Thus some 6ort of reconcilement was establed, and presently the two women, mother and daughter, went up. Stairs together. My hope was that, after that, recriminations would cea->e, and some sort of peace be established in the unhappy house. Directly we were alone, my uncle turned and faced me. I saw ,he was still greatly agitated, and fancied that I guessed the cause. “Hugh, my lad,” he said, “I knawq I can trust ’ee. Ever sin you was a little lad, you’m been a'most a son to me.” With the tears standing in my eyes. I wrung his hand. I pitied him, with my whole heart and soul: for indeed, I loved him like a son. “Hearken, then, Hugh, my lad. Did you hear what poor Annie said about hersen and the overseer?” I nodded; and he continued: “Be it truth, think ’ee?" “I think so—nay, I am certain.” ••There were nawt between them?” “Nought. Annie would never have looked at such a fellow. Lord forgive me for speaking 60 of one that's dead.” He drew his hand across his brow, where the perspiration stood in beaded drops. ! “I think you’m right, lad: I dawn’t think my Annie would lie. But it has all: ys been on my mind, d’ye see. that Johnson ’ticed her from her home. God forgie me if I ha’ been mista’en! More than once, lad, dre iming like. I ha’ fancied—l ha’ fancied—that overseer his.-on confessed wi’ his awn mouth, that he were to blame; and only last night a-bed. dreaming like again, I thoiight I bad my fingers at his throat—and tried to take ’un’s life! I might ha’ dono it, I might ha’ done it, if what I thought were true?” As he 9poke. he raised his voice to a cry, and a strange mad light, such as I had never seen there before, be- j gan to gather in his eyes. Terrified at his words, I move! to the kitchen door, and closed it quickly. ,*i • Hush! For God’s sake, don't speak so loud! Some one may hear you!” He was quiet in a moment. Subdeed and gentle, be let me lead him to a chair. Then our eyes met, and though we exchanged no word, he saw that I guessed hi 9 secret, and groaning painfully, he buried his face in his two hands, and called on God to forgive him his sins, j CHAFFER XXVI. THE SHADOW IX THE HOUSE. P Thus it was that poor Annie returned to her home, and was received once again as u member of the little circle at M. Gurlott’s, But things were sadly change for her, poor child; and sometimes, as I watched her patient ••ndurance, my heart rose in revolt, .nd I blamed myself fur hnving been the means of bringing her home again. True my uncla-was glad to see her, ind treated her with unilorm kindness: indeed, he was never happy unless she was before him. and Annie, noting this, v»s untiring in her dovotioa to him. But with my aunt it was another mat-

I tor. Bhe, who was usually the klndevt i woman, now became a domestic tyrant, , and practiced towards her daugh;er a I species of cruelty, which in another ! person ehe would have been the first , 1 to denounce. She never let poor Annie rest, but reproached her unceasingly | atnut thetroubtes had! Srought • about the change she had wrought jin her poor father, and the happiness of the little home; and she never fail, ed to remind her that it was not until she had been deserted by her unknown lover that she had decided to returnand administer consolation to those whose hearts she had broken. All this Annie bore without a murmur. “It was only her due," said she: “her mother was right; she had de-> Stroyed all their happiness, and she should be made to suffer.” Nevertheless, it was hard for her to bear, and I very often saw her with traceß of tears upon her cheek.

But when people nave poverty before them thsy oannot afford to exaggerate sentimental troubles, and I soon came to the oonclusion that the best way to help Annie was to help myself —to obtain a situation, in fact; and thus, by contributing a weekly allowance. to give things a better complexion at home, As ail hope of obtaining employment in St. Gurlott’s was out of the question, I turned my attention to other quarters. After many heartrending disappointments and endless correspondence, I obtained a situation as overseer of a copper mine is Devon. The situation was a suitable one in every way, and promised to be lucrative. I was to leave home and begin operations in a fortnight. I was in the midst of my preparations, half happy in the thought of being able to inhabit a part of the globe where my misfortunes could not find me out, when I one day heard a piece of news which killed at one blow all my hopes of the future, and made m y life mere Dead Sea fruit. A report spread over the village that George Redruth was about to be married forthwith to Madeline Graham. How or through whom the report originated no one could tell; but Its truih was admitted on every hand. The news stunned me at first, than it drove me mad; wild, ungovernable jealously took possession of me. —T c uld do nothing, think of nothing now, sav one thing—that the woman I loved beyond everything in this world was about to become the wife of another man, and that man my bitter enemy at heart. It was impossible to conceal my secret any lon »er—they had but to look into my face and read it. When Annie heard the new 9, she oried bitterly; aid I. blind as usual, be’ieved she cried out of sympathy for me. “Itißashame, Hugh!” she said, “a r ter having made you love her, that she should wile away another man.” “Don’t say a word against Miss Graham,” I .returned, “for she’s an angel." • Tss, hold your peace!” cried my aunt, nvpig naw t to us, and why should you interfere? And, after all, ’tls better as it is. She could never have wed wi’ Hugh: and no good comes o’ young folk dangling after one another when they can never coom together.” There was sound sense in my aunt’s words, though at the time, with the fiercest jealousy and hatred raging in my heart against the man who had supplanted me, I oould not listen to them. A few days' reflection, however, brought me to a better state of mind—showed me that I was a fool, and that the news which had wrought such an astounding effect upon me was only what I might have ! expeo’ed, if a wild unwarrantable passion "had not made me blind. For, after all. what was 1 to Madeline? During my boyhood I had dared to love uec; but when we met again I saw distinctly that the episode which had been all in all to me had passed completely from her mind. I had had the good fortune to save her life, and she, angel that she was. had been grateful; but now the debt had been paid-in exchange for her life she had helped to save mine. Having paid her debt, she had removed herself irrevocably from me. As I thought of all this I felt my heart grow hard, and I cursed God, who in his beneficence had sent me this one ray of blessing. But why had it come at all? Why had I been shown the light at all, if I was doomed to be cast into darkness again for the remainder of my life? With Madeline Graham by my side, I knew what my days might be; without her I knew it would be 'better for me to be lying at the bottom of the sea. I had mused thus walking up from the village one night, and now, standing at the cottage gate, I looked across the marshes towards iho spot where so many months ago I had brought Madeline to shore. As I gazed my eyes grew dim. and the impulse came upon me to revisit ones again the spot where my darling had set her foot; so I struck off across the waste towards the lonely shore. It was a fine bright moonlight night, clear and still, though the shifting clouds in tho sky predicted storm. I found the sea as calm as a mill pond, fringed with white where the edge 1 lapped the stones upon the shore. The < moon was shining radiantly upon it: ' also upon the boat house, which I looked at tenderly, remembering bow I bad carried Madeline there. Then I fell to thinking of her. I felt again as ! if her head were lying on my shoulder j —her cold bare arms clinging about my neck: and felt as though I would give half my life for such an experience again. With a heavily drawn sigh I was [ about to move away, when a hand was ' j laid upon my shoulder, and turning I found myself fade to face with Made- . line herself! Yes; there she stood, looking more like a spirit than a thing of flesh and

blood: her face was so white, her eye« so sad. She was wrapped from bead to foot In costly furs, while a black hood was thrown lightly over her . head and tied under her chin. At the sight of her ail the blood jushed to my temples, and I felt my body trembling like a leaf; but I commanded myself sufficiently to speak. “Madeline!” I said: “Miss Graham, you here at this hour?” “Yes,” she answered calmly, stnil*. ing a little; “it is a strange place to find me, is it riot? Buttben you know, Mr. Trelawney, I am a strange creature . . ..T may as well confess the truth. I followed you here to-night.” “You followed me?”

“Yes, After our dinner this evening 1 same out with Anita, intending to pay you a visit ah the cottage. When we oame within sight of the gate, I saw you standing there. I paused a moment before stepping forward to speak to you, and you moved away, striking across the marshes towards the sea. 1 sent Anita back, and fallowed you here.” I was not altogether glad that she had done so. It was torture ~to be near her, to look at her, and to know that she had come straight from the caressing arms of another man. However I commanded myself sufficiently to say: “It is not right for you to be here, Miss Graham. Will you let me take you home?” ••You shall do so presently,” she answered, not looking at me, but keeping her eyes fixed upon the sea. “Now I want to talk to you. Is it true you are going away ?” “Yes; it is quite true.” “Where are you going?" “To the borders of Devon. I have obtained a good situation, and hope to make a position there which I could never have risen to here.” (To be continued.)