Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 March 1891 — THE MASTER OF THE MINE. [ARTICLE]

THE MASTER OF THE MINE.

By Robert Buchanan.

CHATTER XXVI—CoinTNTf’ED. ‘And you will be glad to go," she continued: “to leave your home?" “Yes," I replied; ‘*l shall be glad to go. As to my home—why, I have no home now.ail is so sorely changed. My uncle is so broken. I should not know him; my poor cousin, with her load of sorrow, sits in the house and shrinks from the sight of any human soul. It will be all change 1 for me elsewhere. Perhaps I shall find happiness, God grant it! At any rate, there will never be happiness for me here again!" ‘•l'ou talk very bitterly." continued Ifadel ne. ‘ Then you have no wish to s f a- P" “Why should I wish to stay? A few Says ago it would have been another matter. It is all changed now—all changed” * ‘‘What do you mean, Mr. Trelawnsy* mean, I answered, utterly losing myself-controi. that, through all these months of darkness and trouble, I have been sustained by odo thought, one bopa. Miss Graham, we are alone together to-night; there is no one but you to hear me. I may never see you aga'n in this world, therefore I will i •ay it I love you, I have loved you all my life!" She put up her hand, and said hurried lyj “Mr. Treiawney, please say no more! But it was too late, I took her hand and k s ed it. j "I loved you,” 1 continued.“ln those far-off days when we were boy andgirl together. Then years afterwards the pea gave tou back to my arms, and God he p me! the old passion was rekindled in my soul with ten times its Original fire. On e I h<d looked again Into your face, my darling. I had but re hope, erne thought. I know l was madman. I knew there, was a gulf between us broader than the sea from Which I snatched ycu. and yet, fool ttist I was, I live 1 in my paradise, and refused to see the pitfalls which were loomingI ooming ahead. It was enough to enow that I loved you, and that some times I was gladdened by a sight of your face.” I paused, and dropped her hand;she was crying. “Miss Graham." I cried, “don’t cry. for Heaven’s sake! You have a right to bate me for what I have said.” She quickly brushed away her tears, and turned me, smiling sadly. “Don’t say so p ease. 1 honor and respect you more than I can say— more than I can confess, even to myself. I »h: ’1 j ray always for your welfare and | happ'ness. and I shall never forget you as long aa I live!" “God bless you!” I murmured, kissing her hand again. She drew it away hurridly. ‘•Ah! don’t do that,” she murmured, “I ought rather to kneel to you -you, who are ao much braver and better than I.” She walked away a little, and I stood fora moment pondering with my eyes upon the sea. Suddenly I sa ; d: ‘‘Miss Graham, when are you to be married?” Sh“ started, hesitated for a moment, and then replied: “I don't quite know. lamgoingup to London shortly, We are to b-* married there." Every word she uttered seemed to •tab me to the heart. Up to this 1 had clung to a wild hope that the re-< peris I bad heard might have had no foundation —no w that hope was gone. | “Why," I asked desperately, “are you going to marry your cousin?" | She started again, and trembled •lightly. “Why do people generally marry one ano'.her?” she answered. .“Still, there is a very grave reason why this , should be. Mv cousin is comparatively poor, while I am rich; he has grave difficulties before him which I can relieve if I am his wife.” j ■*l tid he put this all- before you?” I ■‘No: he does not even know that I am aware of it. Ah! Mr. Treiawney, we have all our troubles, and my poor , aunt is breaking her heart over hers. Things have b en going wrong since my uncle died.” 1 “And vo i are to be sacrificed to set them right again 9” “W here does the sacrifice come in 9” “Did she ask you if you loved her j eon ” ••!" She asked me if there was any one else whom I wished to marry; 1 and I answered her truthfully; 1 said there was not.” . | We walked back over the marshes, Madeline leaning light'y pi my arm; but we never spoke a word. Having reached the road, we walked on towards Redruth House, and paused at the ga‘e. | “Good-bye. Miss Graham!” I said, holding forth my hand. i ‘-Good-bye ” she sail. I “Yes. 1 returned; “I think it ought! t* be good-bye. In a wee* or ten days St most. I shall be leaving St, Gurlott’s and we may not meet again!” r. ) Before I knew what she was doing the had seized my hand and raised it Sober lips. ! ’“Good-bye. dear friend.” 6he murmured. “and may God bless you!” then, with a sob, she turned and was gone. I stood petrified, watching in a kin of wonder the figure as it moved ea tie moonlit avenue and disap neared amongst the trees; then with a sieh. 1 turned away. Bitterly as I had suffered through my love for Madaline. 1 cud eot for one moment wish that the epi•ode in my lift had never been. CHAFER XXVII, I riIKPAKK TO T.EIVF. ST. OtTRLOTT’S A’! this time there bad been a double shadow on my life: for not oaly was it darkened by my unfortunate passion, but by anxiety for my uncle j

I alone, of all who knew and loved him. guessed the true cause of the sorrow which made him “As • tree inciincth weak and bare Under its uns *en load of wintry air,” bend lower and lower with a mysterious burden; so that, although not an o;d mao, he had become prematurely Ihfi; m. He still went about his daily work in the mine, but feebly, mechanically and very silently; but in the long evenings he sat broo ling by the fireside. BL&rtiog at the eo,ind df a foot without or a knock at the door, but otherwise showtftg little or no interest in the affairs of life, Poor Annie noticed the change, and secretly reproaching herself as the cause, was ever watchful to attend his •lightest wish, to answer his most ca eLess look. Her mother’s sternness pained her, after all. infinitely less than the sad endurance of one who had ever been the tenderest of fathers. And the ohange reflected Itself in her; so that no one would have recognized in the pale, suffering woman the hap., py, gentle girt who had once been the light of a humble home. All this troubled me greatly and made me naturally anxious to leave the scene of so much pain. Had 1 been in any way able to heal the wounds that misfortune had made, had I even been j able to speak with a free heart of the trouble which. In one shape or another, j was weighing upon us all, it might i have been different: but I was utterly I helpless. Combined with my great grief came oftentimes a great dread lest others should discover what was I still an unspoken secret between my unc e and mjßelf. So, in my desptftr lot being of any service I could not help counting the hours till the day I came when 1 was to leave St, Gurlo fs and repair to my new place in the adjoining county. - * I was anxious, too, to get away from the district where the engagement between Madeline Graham and George Redruth was a matter of common gossip; where I was tormented a do en times a day by rumors of what was going on up at the great bouse. After our farewell described in the last chapter, when my last hope left roe and there was nothing for it save to resign myself to*the inevitable ! saw nothing more of Madeline; but a day or two later I heard that she had gone, accompanied by Redruth and his mother, to London, and I knew, io some distant way, that the journey meant furI ther preparations lor the marriage. All this made mo chafe and fret like a man in chains, eager to breathe the outer air, and to put solid earth between himself and his sources of torment. I had last Madeline for eve”, that was Clear; indejd, I had never had any i hope or chance of gaining her; but , the dead, cold certainty of my loss was j unendurable. If I was to live on I must exercise all the powers of my Manhood and endeavor to forget what had been, at the best, only a toollsh dream. So long as T' remained in the neighborhood haunted by so many swe, t memories and troublous associations. forgetfulness was of course impo sib e. ” | .... .... The evening before the day fixed for my departure the gloom in the little cottage was greater than ever. All our hearts were full; although I was only going away a little distance, and although I had promised to revisit my | old home whenever an opportunity offered. it seemed like parting with the old life for ever. Ever sin e I was a boy I had dwelt there, with those good people, who had stood to me in the place of father and mother; j I my little world had been St. Gurlott's. jmy only home that humble cottage; and I should have bee \ made of hard I stuff indeed if I had failed to feel the , parling. We sat together round the fire. 1 tried to assume a cheerful tone, and talked hopeful! vof the future; but it , was no use. Eager as I was to get away, I was no voluntary exile. Where I had lived so long I would have chosen to have lived and died. I My aunt, who was busily knitting I some stockings to form part of my wardrobe, listened to my bold talk, and dolefully shook her head. ! '“Tis well to da’ a light heart,” she said, “and ’tis easy when one is young. But they tell me° Gwenaovey be a lawnesome place.” “Not a bit of it,” I answered, laugh- j Trig. ‘‘Not half so lonesome as St. I Gurlott's.” ••Aud it be so far—’tis bad as going across the sea.” At this I laughed again. • Why, ’tis only seventy mile 9 as the crow Hies! A man might gallop it on i a good horse io a few 6hort hours. Tuen, as to the mine itself! It’s different to being underground, and what's worse, under salt water. It’s open to the s tyi and oheerfut as sunshine—isn't it, uncle?" | My uncle, who occupiel his usual place by the ingle, looked round vacantly. and nodded. I “Iss, lad, that be true!” “Sunshine, did ’ee say?” said my aunt. There’ll be naw sunshine for me or father, when our lad be gone. I dawn’t knaw what father will do with hissen, when you’m gone. You ha’ been,his right hand eversinoeyou was 1 but a child; and he be breaking like, j he’ll miss thee more and more. Bit 1 .dawn'i blame ’ee. lad! You'm right to seek your fortin’; and this be a poor ( pl&oe. Lord knows, for a bold lad like you!” -Hugh will come back, mother," cried Annie, who stood behind »her f other's chair. “He is only going for a while.” ••Of course.” I exclaimed. . “Or, better still. I shall make my fortune, as yon say. and you wi;l come over and live with me." , “Too late for that,” returned my aunt. “We be awldfolk now. aid our time be nigh co ne. When he comes back, 'twill likely bs to our buryin’.” ‘•Nonsense, aunt!" *•1 oould ha’ died ooataat, Hugh, if

-I had ee« ’ee a happy man, wt’ chitder at your knee.” she said, glancing at Annie, and remembering thp old p ans —which had fallen long before, like a house of cards. ••I shall never marry,” I replied, darkening in spite of myself. There was a tong silence. My aunt's words had struck a painful chord, and we were all more or less uneasy. To break the spell of gloomy thought I rose and gazed from the window. It was a fine night with a full moon. “We c.ball have fine weather,” I sa’d. “The wind has gone up into the north.” As f spoke, the kitchen door opened, and John Rudd entered, hit in hand. He greeted us all round, and, at my aunt's request took a seat by the fire. After smiling silently for some minutes, he felt In his pockets, and produced some of his usual presents, brought that day from Falmouth. ••Gawin’ away to-morrow, Measter Hugh?” ae asked presently. “Yes. John. I start after breakfast” “Dear, dear! A horseback, Master Hugh?” ■ “No; I am going to tramp it right across the moor, I shall take it easy, you know; divide the journey into two days, and sleep one night on the way.” “It be a middlin' long walk, measter. Folk tell me there besn&w out on the moor. 1 wish ’ee were going my way; I’d gie thee a lift, and welcome." •‘Tnankyou; John,” I said. “Lawd, it do seem but yesterday Bln you first rode, a little lad. in my awld cart. Do you remember, Measter Hugh how I madoa pome about mirßus and Annie' he. e, and how you put ’un dawn in writing as fine as print?” “Of course I do," i replied. “You don’t write so much - poetry now r John?” “John Rudd's face fell. Ho scratched his head somewhat lugubriously. My gift be failing me, I fear, 1 he murmured; “but thar, pomes be for young folk, not for old "chaps like John Rudd. Howsomever. it do come i out o’me now and then, like sparks ] fra’ a forge; but there be much on’t I can’t repeat, and much I disremember. I’Twerea relief to my feelin’s, like, Measter Hugh, when I had you handy to put ’un dawn!” He added, spreading his great hands on his knees, and sinking his voice to a whisper: “Did I ever tell ’ee the pooty pome I made about yoursen, when they took ’ee for killing the overseer?" I saw my uncle start and change colot. while the pipe that he had lit and was smoking almost dropped from his mouth. •‘Never mind that now, John,’l cried quickly. “Talk of something else—something more pleas mt.” j “All right Measter Hugh," returned the poet. “Shall I tell ’ee the news?” I nodded; and he continued; “Young measter be coming home fro’ Lunnun to morrow wi’ her he is to wed.” “How do you know that?’ I cried, flushing to too trnples, and conscious that all eyos were turned suddenly upon my face. “I brought a blghawxto leave up at the house. Measter Hugh, and ’twere addre-sed to the young missus; and when I were up in the kitchen, and , taking a glass o’ ale wi’ cook, they I told me postman had brought a letter this afternoon, and that young measter were coming home. See!” He little knew ~the torture he was causing me; but every word he uttered , went through ice like a knife. Again II made device to change the subject, and succeeded; but while the good felI low prattled on, my mind was full of the hews that he had brought I I My original determination had been jto leave home at ten or eleven in the forenoon, and, striking across the moorland, to do a leisurely forty miles before resting for the night; but I was now resolved to depart much earlier—indeed, at daybreak. I dreaded the torture of seeing my darling again;and i I knew it to be extremely probable that she might arrive from Falmouth very early in the day. After a parting glass of spirits, in which he pledged me heartily, and wished me all the good luck in the world, John rose to go away. I walked with hi n to the door, aud across j the garden to the gate. Here we shook hands heartily. “Keep an eye on the old man when II am gone.” I said. “Gwendovey is not far away, but far enough if anything goes wrong. My uncle may | want a friepd. If anything happens, don't fail to s no for me at once ” “I’ll.do that, Meas.er Hugh." re-' plied John Rudd. *T be downright grieved to see the old mun saw broken down.” After another hearty handshake he walked away in the moonlight. I wap turning to go in when I felt a touch upon my arm. It was Annie, who had crept out after me and now spoke in a | low voice, almost a whisper. | “Hugh. d p &r Hugh, this i 9 the last night we shall be together for many a long day. I wanted to speak to you before you go. I wanted to be quite sure that we are friends, in spite of all thi has passed.” Her voice was broken with tears. • Full of tenderuesss and pity for her. I put my arm around her, and kissed her on the forehead. | . -‘More than friends. Annie,” I said, “Brother and sister—as much as if we were so by blood.” •Oh, you are good, good!” she cried, resting her head on my shoulder. ••Don’t think lam ungrateful. D n’t i think I fail to see how kind you have been; how all your thought has bean for others—never for yourseP. But 1 u h. dear, you w >u’t be angry if isp4 ( akof ii?—it's on my minu. audl should like to say it 10 you before you go.” ••Wh it is It, Annie?" ••It’s a rout Miss Graham! Ah, don't be angry! I wouldn't pain you fur the world." _

“Do not speak of her,” I said trembling. ••But you love her, Hugh, you love her—ah, do you think 1 have nut seen ?” “Yes, Annie, I love her. What then? I learned long ago that my love was helpless and foool sh. She is far away from me as that star! 1 ought to have known it from the beginning.” —r- -Ty;- ; “ J She raised her eyes to my face, and looked at me earnestly and long. Then she said: * •. ••Sometimes Hugh, I have thought that you are wrong, for you are wortny of any lady in the land. * Sometimes 1 have thought that, if you had ooly spoken she would have listened to you. Why do you give her up. Perhaps there is time yet." “In a few days, Annie, she wfll be married to Mr. Rudruth.” ••Never, never!” criei my cousin, with strange vehemence. “Why it is all arranged. They are engage!. Even if it, were otherwise, where would be my chance. Great ladies do not marry beggars, little woman? “It is of that I wished to speak,” persisted Annie. “I do not thinx those two will ever be man and wife.” “Why do you say that? Have you anyrgason?”- ~~ .? 11 : •Yes, Hugh. Do not ask me to say more now; but promise—promise me that you will not quite despair. For you care for her very much, do you not? And I—l know what you must feel, with such a love as yours.” As she spoke the old suspicion came upon me. I bent down and gazed into her face, Ut by the brilliant moonlight. Never had she looked so pretty. “Annie,” I said, “before I go, have you nothing more to say to me?” “No._dear Hugh*’’ —^ (To be continued.}