Rensselaer Republican, Volume 23, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 May 1891 — THE MASTER OF THE MINE. [ARTICLE]

THE MASTER OF THE MINE.

By Robert Buchanan,

CHAPTER XXXVH. j THB BEGINNING OF THS KVD. * It was the supreme moment of my file, and. standing there before my darling, dazed and joyfully bewildered, with her beautiful fare turned, radiant with love, no mine, well might I have echoed the I ecstatic cry of the lover of lovers—‘lf tt were now to die, "IVere now to be most happy; for, I fear, My soul hath her content so absolute, That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate! But the words which were bliss to jne were gall and wormwood to the soul of George Redruth. Livid with pain, he looked at her who uttered them; then, glancing round at the wild groups surrounding us, he said: 'You must be mad, to speak like that. Trelawaey, a word with you. There shall be an end to this once and forever: come apart, and let us •peak together!" He walked a short distance along the cliffs, I following with Madeline by ;my side. When we were out of •arshot of any soul there, he turned and faced us. His self-control was aow remarkable; a stranger, looking at him, and observing his manner, would never have gathered that he was a pray to the acutest suffering of mortified pride and passion, '‘l might have guessed this from the first," he said, in a low voice. TTou, Trelawney, always hated me — and, God knows; I returned the compliment ! I can see now why you saved my life. To crush and humiliate me before my cousin, over whose Eind you have obtained some malign fluence."

I looked at him, but made no reply. He continued, with apparent calm ness, addressing Madeline: “I tun to understand, then, that our engagement is at an end?" - “Yes,"she answered. —"“Very well. You know as well as I what that means so me—ruin, perhaps disgrace; but I am not going to whine over the inevitable. Trelaw■aey, I congratulate you," he added, with a curious smile, “You have won the game." He turned as if to go, but Madeline, with an impressive cry, interposed. “George, do not talk like that!" she cried “There is a chance yet of retrieving the past; and if you will do so, I snail still be your friend. It was not h fated that I should be your wife; only one woman living has that title, and to your atonement. Let me go to her 1 Let ire tell her that you will make amends." ; .-h “I fail to understand you," he answered, coldly. “Of whom are you •peaking?” “Of Annie Pendragon, the poor Eirl whose heart you have nearly roken ! Yo see I know everything. George—for my sake " His face darkened, while his lips twitched convulsively. “How kind you are, how solicitous lor my moral welfare! It is very good of you, I acknowledge, to offer to provide me with a helpmate, but I must politely decline your kind ofdoes. Annie Pendragon is nothing to me. lam a gentleman, I believe: she is ” “Takecare!” I cried. “Utterone ; word against her at your peril! I do not ask you now to acknowledge her —it is too late for that; and even l( it could be, I think she is better as •he is, than she could ever become, more closely united to a man like you. But she is sacred, and I forbid .you even to utter her name.” “You mistake my meaning," he ;returned, still retaining his self, possession. “All I was going to say was that we are not equals. I deeply : regret what has occurred—l acknowledge my own folly—my own .guilt, if you like it better; but from this time forth we are nothing to, each other." “George, George!’’ cried my darling in despair. “Have you no <heart?" “I suppose so: but blame yourself, If it is somewhat leaden on the present occasion. I am not used to humiliation, you see; and though I take my punishment as calmly as possible, I still feel it.” I could nave strangled him, he was so utterly cold-blooded. “If there is justice,” I cried, “God will punish you! You have not only wrecked one life, but vou have destroyed two others. Do you know that my uncle —God help him! —confessed with his last breath that he J»ad killed your accomplice, the man Johnson? That man’s death, as well ras John Pendragon’s, lies at your .• door.'" He started in surprise, but conquered himself in a moment. *<‘l had my suspicions,” he said, rbut 'I was silent for his daughter's isake. I fail to see, howev. that I mm responsible for the mad act of a murderer.” “You are the murderer, not he!” I "cried. “Nonsense’” he answered; and, - still mastering himself, he walked • away. I turned and looked at Madeline. She was gazing after him,' with a face pale as death. “Madeline,” I said, “do not think I am fallen so low as to presume upon the hasty words you spoke just now. I know that, when this sorrowful day is over, you will forget theq— you must forget them, in duty to yourself. It will be happiness . enough for me to know that, when I most needed it, I had your sympa thy; that if I bad been other than I am. I might have had your love. And •ow, shall we say good bye?”

I held out mr hand to her; she gazed at me as if wonder. “Then you do »ot understand?" she said gently. ‘ ‘Or perhaps—you did understand, and I was mistaken in thinking that you cared for me—so much.” ~ -- ■ - ...

‘ ‘Care for you?" 1 repeated passionately. “Ever since I can remember, my heart, my whole life, has been yours. Do not think that lam so lost, so selfish, as to think that the distance between us can be bridged over by your heavenly, pity. I am a poor man; you are a rich lady. I know what that I have known it from the beginning.” As I spoke my heart was so stirred that I had to turn my face aside to hide the gathering tears. But she crept close to me, and I felt the soft touch of her hand on my arm. “I do not blame you for thinking that," she said. ‘‘A little while ago I thought so too; but Hugh, dear —may I call you so? —God has opened my eyes. I think I always loved you; but never so much as to-day. ” “Don’t speak of it! It can't be! Oh, Madeline, let us say farewelH" “Hugh, dear Hugh, listen! You must listen! Ah, do not be unkind!” ™ “Unkind—to you!" I murmured. “God knows I would die for you!” “Had you died down in the mine, I should still have been faithful to you; I should never have loved another man. May I tell you the whole truth? I will, and you will understand. When I saw you going to your death—going, in your great goodness and noble courage, to save your enemy’s life at the peril of your own —I knew for the first time that alt my heart was yours. I did not deter you, but I prayed to God for you, and as I prayed, I swore before my God that, if He restored you to me, I would lay my heart bare to you, and ask you to make me your wife. God was good; you came back, as from the grave. And now, will you turn away from me? Will you refuse me the one thing remaining that can make life sweet and sacrea to me —your forgiveness and your love?”

It was too much. The spell erf the old passion came upon me, as, sobbing and trembling, I took my darling to my heart. Thus it came to pass that I, Hugh Trelawney, a man of the people, became the accepted lover of Madeline Graham. Looking back at it all now, after a lapse of so many years, it still seems an incredible thing, unreal and visionary; but raising my eyes from the paper whereon these lines are written, I see beside me the sweetest assurance that it is true. When I began the story of my life, I said that it was also the story of my love. It has lasted so long; it will last, God willing, till death, and after death.

“Is it not so, my darling?” She smiles, and bends over line to kiss her answer. She watches the pen as it moves over the paper, and she waits for the last word, knowing my tale is almost done.

Love is by nature selfish; and in the first flush of my new joy I almost forgot the sorrow in our poor home. But when I quitted my darling, and joined the little procession which followed my poor uncle across the heath, I reproached myself fear having felt so nappy. The miners had procured a rude stretcher, often used when accidents took place in the mine, and the dead body was laid upon it, with a cloak thrown lightly over it to hide the piteous, disfigured face set in its sad ,sprey hair; but one hand hung uncovered, and this hand Annie held, as we walked slowly homeward, four of the men carrying the load. I followed, helping my aunt, who was simply heart-broken. h- They bore him into the cottage, and women came to do the last, sad offices. While they were thus occupied, I spoke to Annie, trying to console her. White as marble, and now quite tearless, she seemed like one whose reason had bereft her, under the weight of some violent physical blow. But when we went' upstairs together, and saw my uncle lying as if asleep, his white hair decently arranged, his face composed, his thin hands folded on his breast, his whole expression one of mysterious peace, she knelt beside him and kissed his cold brow, and her tears again flowed freely. My aunt stood beside her, weeping and looking on. “God has taken him,” I said solemnly. “He is happy now." [To be Continued.]