Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 19, Number 43, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 20 April 1889 — Page 2

Col. Quaritch bad twice in bis life been at Honham before the present time, when he luul conio to abide there for good and all, one? ten and once four years ago. His old suint, Mm. Mnssey, had a place in the village —a very small place—callod Houham cottage, or Molehill, and he had on these two occasions been down to stay with her. Now Mrs. Massey was dead and buried, and had left him the property, and ho had given up Ads profession. In which ho bed no further prospects, ami come to live at Hon ham. This was his first evening in the place, tor he had .Arrived by the last train on the previous might. All day ho had been busy trying to 4jet the house a littlo straight, and now, thoroughly tired of tho task, be was refreshdug himself by leaning over a gate. It is, though a great many people will not believe tft, one of the most delightful refreshments in the world.

And then it was, as he leaned over the gate, that tho imago of a woman's face rose iieforu his mind as it had been eoutinually vising for the last five years. It was five years since ho had seen it, and those five jwars he had spent in India and Egypt. It •eemed but the other day that bo had beeu loaning over this very gate, and had turned to see a young girl dressed in black, with a «pray of honeysuckle stuck in her girdle, and a stick in her baud, walking leisurely down the lane. There was something about the girl's air that had struck him while she was yet along way off—a dignity and a grace, and a set of the shoulders, and then as she •came nearer he saw the soft dark eyes and the waving brown hair that contrasted so strangely and effectively with the pale and striking faco. It was not a beautiful face, for the mouth was too large, and the nose was not as straight as it might have beat, tat thero was a power about tbe broad brew, And a forco and solid nobility stamped upon tho features which bad impressed him strangely. Just as she arrived opposite to where he was standing a gust of wind, for there was a stiff brccxa, had blown the lady's hit off, taking it right over the hedge, and fee, as in duty bound, had scrambled into tho Itaki and fete bed it for lier, and she had thanked him with a quick smile and a lighting up of the brown eyes, and then passed •on with a bow.

BY H. RIDER HAOOARD

CHAPTER I.

HAROLD QCABITCU HEDITATE8. There r.re some ti:i ga and faces which, when fait or seen for the first time, project themselves upon the minds like a BUD image on a sensitive plate and there remain cnal tterahly fi :ed. To take the case of a face— •wb may r.evcr see it ogain, or it may become fthe companion of our life: but there the picture is fast a* we first knew St. tbe same smue, xtbe name took, unaltering and unalterable, aexniiiriing us in tho midst of change of the -Absolutely indestructible nature of every ex^pcrience, act and as|x»rt of our life For that which has leen Is, since the past knows uo •change and uo corruption, but live* eternally •Mn it* frozen ami completed self. ^Tbeso nra outowhat large words to be born +&1 a small matter, but tbey rose up spontaneously a the miBd of a soldierly looking anan who wns leaning, on the paiticular evening when this history opens, over a gate fn an eastern country lace. Blaring Vacantly Mt-n ripe field -f corn, y.

Ho was a jecujiar and rather battered lookring individual, apparently over 40 years of *ge, tinl yet bearing upon him that unrnisal:able stamp of dignity and self respect -which, if it does not exclusively belong to, is yet one of tire distinguishing attributes of fehe English gentleman, in lace he was ugly •mo other vvurd can express it. He.*e were not tbe long mustaches, the aimoud eyes, tbe -.aristocratic air of the colonel of fiction—for oar dreamer was a coloncl. These were— *las! that the truth should Ihjso plain—represented by somewhat scrubby, sandy colored whiskers, small but kindly blue eyes, a low, imiod forehead, with a deep lino running Across it from side to side, something like that to be soeu upon the bust of Julius CtBiar, mnA

long, thin nose. One good feature,

anouth. Well, uever mind, better be a plain wmn than a pretty woman. Thero, go along, Sboy, I like your ugly face." ®or was tbe old lady peculiar in this respect, for plain as the countenance of CoL Harold Quaritch undoubtedly was, people ound something very taking about it when oncc they got used to its rugged air and

Men Celt this, and he was popular among those who know him in his service, though ""Hut flTHOTE'Women he was"not popular. As •A rule, they both feared and disliked him.

His jwetence jarred upon the frivolity of tbe lighter membors of their sex, who dimly realized that his nature was antagonistic, And tho more solid ones could not understand Shim. Perhaps this was tho reason why Col. '^Quaritch had nover married, had never even jfaad a love affair since he was tlve-and-twenty.

however,f he did possess, a mouth of such •wcetnessnwl beauty that, set «:s it was above jm very square and manly looking chin, it had ^be air of being ludicrously out of place. *'Umph," said his old aunt, Mrs. Massey (who .(had list died and left him what she had), on Abe occasion of her first introduction to him ^vo-and-thirty years before, "umph! Nature, fouud in the eastern counties, where the aneant to make a pretty girl of you, and scenery is fine enough in its own way, what--changcd her mind after she had finished the ever jeople, whose imaginations are so weak

•tern, regulated expression. What that some- mound, which may perhaps have covered thing was it would be lmrd to define, but

And yet it was of a woman's face that he was thinking us ho loaned over tho gate and looked at the field of yellowing corn, undu-' lating like a golden sea beneath the pressure of tho wind.

Yes, with a littlo she had passed on, and he had watched her departing down tho long level drift, till she melta-d into the atormv winse* light, and was gone. When be returned to the cottage be had described iter to hi* old aunt, and asked who she might be, to learn that her aam* was Ida de la *le, which sout'd like a name out of a tbe only jbfcwr of tho old squire who lived at Houfaam castis. And then next day ho had left for India, and saw

NoU* no mora

imwnwiiM

And now he wondered what had become of iter. lYoisaMy s&o was marrwvi striking a ixsrsaa wtsild bo almost sure to attract the aotkv of ttxn. Aad after all, wttt could it amitertotuiitf lie was no* a man? lag man, wotw« as* class had littioauartct»64ifor I indeed he disliked tbem. It «atd that he bad never married, aad nevtr 4prea bad a Ipve tjJflair

twenty, and this was true enough. But though he was not married, he, one© before be was Qve-and-twenty, had very nearly taken that step." It was twenty years ago now, and nobody quite knew the history, for in twenty years many things are fortunately forgotten. But there was a history, and a scandal, and tbe marriage was broken tff almost on the very day before it was to have taken place. And after that it leaked out in the neighborhood—it was in Essex—that the young lady, v.-ho by tho way was a large heiress, had gone off her bead, presumably with grief, and lxt*n confined in an asylum, where she was bei -ved still to remain.

Perhaps it was the thought of this one woman's face, the woman he had once seen walkiug down tho drift, her figure Hnmed out against the stormy sky, that led »«:.i to think of the other face, the face hidden in the mad bouse. At any rate, with a sigh, or rather a groan, he swung himself round from the gate, and began walking homeward at a brisk pace.

Shaking himself'clear of his sad thoughts, Harold Quantch turned round at his own front door

contemplate the scene. The

long, single stoned house stood, as has been said, at the top of the rising land, and to the south and west and east commanded as beautiful a view as is to be seen in that country. There, a mile or so away to the south, situated in the midst of grassy grazing grounds, flanked on either side by still perfect towers, frowned the massive gateway of the old Norman castle. Then, to the west, almost at the foot of the Molehill, the ground broke away in a deep bank clothed with timber, which led the eye down by slow descents into the beautiful valley of the E1L Here ihe silver river wound its gentle way through lush ami |Kplar bordered marshes, where the cattle stand knee deep in flowers past quaint wooden mill houses, through Boisingham Old Common, windy looking even now, and brightened here and there with a dash of golden gorse, till it was lost in the picturesque cluster of red tiled roofs that marked the ancient town. Look which way he would, the view was lovely, and equal to any to be

that they require a mountain and a torrent to excite them into activity, may choose to »say to the contrary.

Behind tho house to the north there was no .view, and for a good reason, for here, in the very middle of the back garden, rosea mound of large size and curious shape, which completely shut the landscape out. What this

half

perhaps the nearest approach to the truth idea. Home learned folk said awrould bo to describe it as alight of purity -which, notwithstanding tbe popular idea to the contrary, is to be found quite as often •apoa the faces of men as upon those of wo•arien. Any person of discernment in looking mt Col. Quaritch must have felt that he was in the presence of a good man, not a prig or milksop, but a man who had attained to vir£ue by thought and struggle that bad left their mark upon his face, a man whom it would not bo well to tamper with, and one to 4be respected by all, and feared of evil doers.

an acre of ground, was nobody had any

tunt it was a

Uaxon tumulus, a presumption to which its aiuiont tuune, "Dead Man's Mount," seemed to give color. Other folk, however, yet mt ro learned, declared that it was an ancient British dwelling, and pointed triumphantly to «. hollow at the top, wherein the ancient Britishers were supposed to have moved, lived and had their being, which must, urged the opposing party, have been a very damp one. Thereon, the late Mrs. Mnssey, who was a British dweliingite, proceeded to show with much triumph how they had lived in tho hole by building a huge mushroom shaped j-^f ovnr it, and thereby ttgning it into a pected difficulties TiSrtlie construction of the' roof, cost a great deal of money. But as the roof was slated, and as it was found necessary to pave the hole with tiles and cut surface drains in it, the result did not clearly prove its use as a dwelling place before tho Roman conquest. Nor did it make a very good summer houso. Indeed, it now served as a store place for the gardeners' tools and for rubbish generally.

CHAPTER II/"!

TFIB COLONEL MEETS TUB SQUIRE.

Suddenly, as Col Quaritch was contemplating these various views and reflecting that on the whole he had done well to come and live at Honbain cottage, he was startled by a loud voice saluting him from about twenty yards distauco with such a peculiar vigor that ho fairly jumped. "Col. Quaritch, I believe," eaidf, or rather shouted, the voice from somewhere down tbe drive. "Yes," answered the colonel mildly, "here I am." "Ah, I thought it whs you. Alwnys tell a military man, you know. Excuso me, but I am resting for a minute, this last pull is an uncommonly stiff one. I always used to tell my dear old friend, Mrs. Massey, that she ought to have the hill cut away a bit just here. Well, bore goes for it," and after a few heavy steps tho visitor emerged from tho shadow of the trees into tho sunset light which was playing ou the terrace before the house.

Col. ^Quaritch glanced up curiously to see who the owner of the great voice might be, and his eyes lighted upon as fine a specimen nf humanity as he had seen for a long while. The man was old, ns his white hair showed, 70 perhaps, but that was the only sign.of de-

cay about him. Ho a brood and tiaok mad msl a lace tsm jeite! ly I a* tha^ ia .rth

ui.

s*gr-.-.vo

visitor fdwdtiMnt

on !..*

and resting himself after breasting the EOT, Harold Quaritch thought to himself that he had never seen a more perfect specimen of tbe typical English country gentleman-** the English country gentlemen used to be. "How do you do, sir, how do you do? My na m* is De la Moll* My man George, who knows everybody's business except his own, toid me that you had arrived here, so I thought that 1 would walk round, and do myself the houor of making your acquaintance." k, '., ••That is very kind of you, said the OoloneL "Not at alL If you only knew tiow uncommonly dull it is down hera you would not say that. The place isnt what it used to be when I wa.j a boy. There are plenty of rich people about, but tbey are not the same stamp of people It isn't what it used to be in more ways than one," and the old squire gave something like a sigh, and thoughtfully removed his white hat, out of which a dinner napkin and two pocket handkerchiefs fell to the ground, in a fashion that reminded CoL Quaritch of the climax of a conjuring trick. "You have dropped some—some linen," he said, stooping down to pick the mysterious articles up. "Oh, yes, thank you," answered his visitor, "I find tbe sun a little hot at this time of the year. Thei-e is nothing like a few handkerchiefs or a towel to keep it off," and he rolled ihe mass of napery into a ball, and cramming it back into the crown, replaced the hat on his head in such a fashion that about eight inches of white napkin hung down behind. "You must have felt it in Egypt," he went on—"the sun, I mean. It's a bad climate, that Egypt, as I have good reason to know," and he pointed again to hid white hat, which, us Harold Quaritch now observed for the first time, pis encircledj by hroa^ black hand. ,,v -J, 'Ah, I see," said he. "I suppose that'you bate had a loss."

And again the old man sighed, heavily this time. "And now. Col. Quaritch," he" went on, shaking off his oppression with a curious rapidity tlmt was characteristic of him, "what do you say to coming up to the castle for your "dinner! You must be in a mess here, and I expect that old Mrs. Jobson, whom my tnan George tells mo you h^ve gy**

Take the place as you find it, you know. 1 know that thero is a leg of mutton for dinner If thero is nothing else, because, instead of minding his own business, I saw George going off to Boisingham to fetch it this morning. At least, thut is what he said that he was going for just an excuse to gossip and idle, I fancy." "Well, really," said the colonel, "you are very kind but I don't think that my dresB clothes are unpacked yet." "Dress clothes

clothes. Ida will excuse you, I dare say. Besides, you have no time to dress. By Jovel it's nearly 7 o'clock we must be off if you are coming."

The colonel hesitated. He hod intended to dine at home, and being a methodical minded man did not like altering his plans. Also be was, like most old military men, very punctilious about nis dress and personal appearance, and objected to going out to dinner in a shooting coat. But all this notwithstanding, a feeling that he did not quite understand, and that it would have puzzled even an American novelist to analyze—something between restlessness and curiosity, with a dash of magnetic attraction thrown in—got tho better of his scruples, and he went. "Wall, thank you," be said, "if you are suro that Miss do la Molle will not mind, I will come. Just allow me to tell Mrs. Jobson." "That's right," hallooed the squire after him. "I'll meet you at the back jpf the house. We had better go through the fields."

The colot&l. having informed his housekeeper that he should not want any dinner, and hastily brushed his not too luxuriant locks, rejoined Mr. de la Molle.

They strolled along, stopping now and again to admire some

.TERRE HAXTTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

s.,

"Yes, sir, a very heavy loss." Now Col. Quaritch had never hoard that Mr. de la Molle had more than one child, Ida de la Molle, the young lady whose face had remained sp strongly fixed in his memory, although h'O had scarcely spoken to her 06 that one occasion five long years ago. Could it t« ptissible that she had died in Egyptr Tho idea sent a tremor of fear through him, though of course there was no real reason why it should. Deaths are so common. "Not—not Miss de & Mollef' he said, nervously, adding, "I had the pleasure of seeing her once, a good many years ago, when 1 was stopping here for a few days with my aunt." "Oh, no, not Ida, she is alive and well, thank God. Her brother James. He went ail through that wretched war, which we owe to Mr. Gladstone, as I say, though I don't know what your politics are, and then caught a fever, or, as I think, got touched by the sun, and died on his way home. Poor boyl He was a fine fellow, Col. Quaritch, and my only son, but very reckless. Only a fnonth or so before* he died I wrote to him to be careful always to put a towel in his helmet, and he answered, in that flippant sort of way that he had, that be was not going to turn himself in a dirty clothes bag, find that ho rather liked the heat than otherwise. Well, he's gone, poor fellow, in the service of his country, like many of his ance-*o~s before him, and there's an end of him

I Oh, never mind your dress

{Articular

talk.

oak or view,

chatting all tho while in a discursive manner, which, though it was somewhat aimless, was by no means without its charm. The squire was a capital companion for a silent man like Harold Quaritch, who liked to hear other pqpple

lu this way they got down the slope, and pa aging through a couple of wheat fields came to a succession of broad meadows, somewhat sparsely timbered, through which the footpath ran right up to the grim gateway of the onckmt castle, which now loomed before them, outlined in red lines of fire agaiust the ruddy background of the sunset sky.

In another three minutes they hod crossed a narrow byroad and were passing up the ancient drive that led to the castle gates.

Right before them was the gateway of the castle, flanked by two great towers, and that, with the exception of some ruins, was, as a matter of fact, all that remained of the undent building, which had been effectually demolished in tbe time of CromwelL The space within, where tho keep bad once stood, was now laid out as a flower garden, while the bouse, which was 01 an unpre: nat"T~\ and built in the Jacob ian cuf the south side of the square, and was placed with tback to the moat. "You see I rjva practically rr^ -'it that?* twotowets," I the squire, pen under truth i.c Karr.-.tn uuajr. "if I ru oot done 1:,"' .* 1 lei, "they would ili' :i rail ow, but it cost frv-.ty rcr.: y. I can tell you. Xo'-xiy Irrwr. v.*:.- -,ft tV lid flint •f.ry is to

t.-Tt^ry Sraii

spear heacls and ancient swords. And here it was that Harold Quaritch once more beheld the face that had haunted his memory for .so many months.

CHAPTER HL

THE TALE OF SIB JAKES DE LA MOLLE. "Is that you, father!" said a voice, a very sweet voice, but one of which the tones betrayed the irritation natural to a healthy woman who has been kept waiting for her dinner. The voice came from the recesses of the dusky room in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and looking iu its dir.vtion Harold Quaritch could see the outOnes of a tall form sitting in an old oak chair with its binds crossed. "Is that you. father? Really it is too bad to be so late for dinner, especially after you blew up that wr itched Emma last night because she was five minutes after time. I have been waiting so long that 1 have almost been asleep.'" "I am very sorry,.my dear, very," said the old gentleman, apologetically, "but—halloo! IVe knocked my head, here, Mary, bring me a light." "Here is a light," said tbe voice, and at tbe same moment there was a sound of a match being struck.

In another moment the candle was alight, and tbe owner of the voice had turned round with it, holding it in such a fashion that its rays surrounded her like an aureole, showing Harold Quaritch that face of which the memoiy had never left him. There was the same powerful, broad brow, the Same nobility of look, the same brown eyes and soft waving hair. But the girlhood had gone out of it the face was now the face of a woman, who knew what life was and had not found it too easy. It had lost some of its dreaminess, he thought, though it bad gained in intellectual force as for tho figure, it was much more admirable than the face, which was. strictly speaking, not a beautiful one. The figure, however, was undoubtedly beautiful indeed, it is doubtful if many women could show a finer. Ida de la Molle was a large, strong woman, and there was about her a swing and a lissome grace which is very rare, and as attractive as it is rare. 8ho was now nearly six-aud-twenty years of age, and, not having begun to wither in accordance with the fate which overtakes nearly all unmarried women after 80, was at her very best. Harold Quaritch, glancing at her well poised head, her perfect bust and arms (for she was in evening dress), and her gracious form, thought to himself that he had never seen a nobler looking woman. "Why. my dear father," she went on as she watched the match burn up and held it to the candle, "you made such a fuss this morning about the dinner being punctually at 7:30, and now it's 8 o'clock, and you are not dressed. It is enough to ruin any cook," and she broke off for the first time, perceiving that her father was not alone. "Yes, my dear, yes." said the Old gentleman, "I dare say I did. it is human to err, my dear, especially ubout diuner on, a fine evening. Besides, I have made amends and brought you a visitor, our new neighbor, CoL Quaritch. Col. Quaritch, let me introduce you to my daughter, Miss de la Molle." "I think that we have met before," said Harold, in somewhat nervous fashion, as he stretched out his hand. "Yes," answered Ida, taking it, "I remember. It was in the long drift, five years ago, on a windy afternoon, when my hat blew over the h®ige and you went to fetch it." "You have a good memory, Miss de la

Molle," said he, feeling not a little pleased tjaat she should have recollected -^videntiy noToerwr tnan your own, Col. Quaritoh," was her ready answer. "Besides, one sees so few strangers here that one naturally remembers them. It is a place where nothing happens—timo passes—that is all."

Meanwhile the old squire, who had been making a prodigious fuss with his hat and stick, which he managed to send clattering down the flight of stone steps, departed to get ready, saying in a kind of roar as he went that Ida was to order in the dinner, as he would be down in a minute.

Accordingly she rang the bell, and told the maid to bring iu the soup in five minutes, and to lay another place. Then turning to Harold, shs began to apologize to him. "I don't know what sort of a dinner you will get, Col. Quaritch," she said "It is so provoking of my father hp never gives one the least warning when be is going to ask any one to dinner." "Not at all, not at all," he answered hurriedly. "It Is I who ought to apologize, coming down on you like—like" "A wolf on the fold," suggested Ida. "Yes, exactly," he went on earnestly, looking at his coat, "but not in purple and gold." "Well," she went on, laughing, "you will get very little to eat for your pains, and 1 know that soldiers always like good dinners." "How do you know that. Miss de la Mollef "Oh, because of poor James and his friends whom he used to bring here. By the way, CoL Quaritch," she went on, with a sudden softening of tho voice, "you havo been in Egypt, I know, because I have so often seen your name in tho papers did you ever meet my brother there T' "I knew him slightly," ho answered "ofrty very slightly. I did not know that bo was your brother, or, indeed, that you had a brother. He was a dashing officer."

What he did not say, however, was that bealso knew him to have been one of tbe wildest and most extravagant young men in an extravagant regiment, and as sucb had to some extent shunned his society on tbe few occasions when be had been thrown in with him. Perhaps Ida, with a woman's quickness, divined from his tone that there was something behind his remark at any rate she did not ask him for particulars of their slight acquaintance. 'He was my only brother," she continued "There never were but us two, and, of course, his loss was a great blow to me. My father cannot get over it at all, although"—and she broke off suddenly and rested her head upon ber hand.

At this moment, too, the squire was beard advancing down tbe stairs, shouting to the servants as he came "A thousand pardons my dear, a thousand pardons,* he said, as be entered the room "but, well, if you will forgive parti '..'irs, 1 was quite unable to discover tbe wbercahoots of a certain necessary portion of the male attim Now, Col. Quaritch, will y.r.: take my daughter! Stop, you don't kuu-/ the way—perhaps I had better *huw it to you with tl candkt"

Acnr iiogly b»odrar«*d.oot of th* vestibule, a- turning to left, led t:. way down a ior.j passage till be rvnei.^l tie fining ro--,::. Thh nodior,:, tv.'-.Mgb not 1 J*. was by throe narrow win r.- s, whit loc 1 out tspc: s:i it,and 1* -v .%

fi»b, ti-k ob nas of estrac -s :. auved 1.

aodtw

the sai

arms of the De la Molle family, one piecc, indeed, a very ancient salver, bearing those of the Boisseys—a ragged oak, in an escutcbcon of pretense—showing thereby that it dated from the De la Molle' who, in the timo of Henry Vll, had obtained the property by marriage with the Boissey heiress.

As the dinner, which was a siraplo one, went

011,

bOtae

s*'i.ar,r

a ll •m. .-. 1..

«*d hisj sts, relics of

the conversation having turned that

way, the old squire had this piece of plate brought by tbe servant girl to Harold Quaritch for him to examina "It is very curious," he said. "Have you much of this, Mr. de la Mollef'

No, indeed," he said, "1 wish I had. It all vanished in the time of Charles I." "Melted down, 1 suppose,"said tbo colonel "No, that is tbo odd part of it. 1 dont think it was. It was hidden somewhere—I don't know where, or perhaps it was turned into money and the money hidden. But 1 will tell you the story, if you like, as soon as we have done dinner."

Accordingly, as soon as tbe servant had removed the cloth, and, after tbe old fashion, placed tbe wine upon the naked wood, the squire began his tale, of which tbe following is the substance: "In the time of James 1 tbe De la Molle family was at the height of its prosperity, that is. so far as money goes. For several generations previous the representatives of the family had withdrawn themselves from any active participation in public affairs, and living here at small expense upon their lands, which were at that time very large, had amassed a quantity of wealth that, for the age, might fairly be calledjenormous. Thus Sir Stephen de la Molle, the grandfather of the Sir James who lived in the time of James 1, left to his son, who was also uadied Stephen, a sura of not less than £28,000 in gold. This Stephen was a great miser, and tradition says that he trebled the sum in his life time. Anyhow, he died rich as Croesus, and abominated alike by his tenants and by the country side, as might be expected when a gentleman of his name and fame degraded himself, as this Sir Stephen undoubtedly did, to tho practice of usury. "With the next heir. Sir James, however, the old spirit of the De la Molles seems to have revived, although it is sufficiently clear that he was by no means a spendthrift, but, ou the contrary, a careful man. though one who maintained his station and refused to soil his fingers with such base dealing as it had pleased his uncle to do. Going to court hebecame, perhaps on account of his wealth, a considerable favorite with James i, to whom he was greatly attached, aud from whom he bought a baronetcy. Indeed, the- best proof of his devotion is, that ho on two occasions, lent large sums of money to the king which were never repaid. On the accession of Charles I, however, Sir James left court under circumstances which were uever quite cleared up. it is said that, smarting under some slight which was put upon him, he made a somewhat brusque demand for tbe money that ho had lent to James. Thereon the king, with sarcastic wit, congratulated him 011 the fact that the spirit of his uncle,

Sir Stephen De la Molle, whose namo was still a byword in tho land, evidently survived in the family. Sir James turned white with auger, bowed, and without a word left the court, nor did he ever return thither. "Years passed, and the civil war was at its height. Sir James had as yet steadily refused to take any share in it He had never forgiven the insult put upon him by the king, for, liko most of his race, of whom it was said that they uever forgave an injury and never forgot a kindness, ho was a pertinacious man. Therefore he would not lift a finger in tho king's cause, but still less would he help the Roundheads, ,wbom he hated ..urlrh Hi mruln hatindL til 1 at last, when he was soro pressed, Charles, knowing his great wealth and influence, brought himself to write a letter to this Sir

James, appealing to him for support, and especially for money. 'I hear,' said the king in his letter, 'that Sir James de la Molle, who was aforetyme well affected to our person and more especially to tbe late king, our sainted father, doth stand idle, watching the growing of this bloody struggle and lifting no hand. Such was not the way of the race from which he sprung, which, unless history doth greatly lie, hath in tho past been each found at the side of their Icings striking for the right. It is said to me also that Sir James de la Molle doth thus place himself aside, blowing neither hot nor cold, because of some sharp words which we spake in heedless jest many a year that's gone. We know uot if this be true, doubting if a man's memory be so long, but so it be, then hereby do we crave his pardon, and no more can we do. And now is our estate one of grievous peril, and sorely do we need the aid of God and man. Therefore, if the heart of our subject Sir James de la Molle be not rebellious against us, as we cannot readily credit it to be, we do implore present bis aid in men and money, of which last it is said he hath large store, this letter being proof of our urgent need.' "These were, as nearly as I can remember, the very words of the letter which was written in his own hand, aud show pretty clearly bow hardly be was pressed. It is said that when he read it, Sir James, forgetting his grievance, burst into tears, and, taking the paper, wrote hastily as follows, which last he certainly did, for I have seen tbo letter in the .museum: 'My liege—Of the past I will not speak. It is past. But since it hath graciously pleased your majesty to ask mine aid against the rebels who would overthrow your throne, rest assured that all I have is at your majesty's disposal, till such time as your enemies are discomfited. It liath pleased Providence to. so prosper my fortunes that I have stored away in a safe place, till these times be past, a very great sum in gpld, whereof I will at once place 10,000 pieces at the disposal of your majesty, so soon as a safe TPA«n» can be provided of conveying the same, seeing that I bod sooner die than that these great moneys shodld fall into tbe band* of tbe rebels to the furtherance of an evil cause.' "Then tbe letter went on to say that tbe writer would at once buckle to and ra: a troop of borne am-rnz tenantry, and that, if other Rati«fact -ry ar: .:-gen: j» could not be mado for the conveyance of tbe moneys, bo would 1i •':m in r- to the !:ing. "And n-w cuiuca tha cii::!••* u: t.i'- ^wry. The in! server was captured, u"d Sir James* incauti'/.is u-h'-r taL* a fr-.ni hi* tr-.t, asa remit of wiiicii he, usthiu uw Umv, found blffiM If el *vly l« by SOU R*»u .dbeti.!*, r.tiiji'r t: of 0:1c ."!. fViJffai envi.e iva. !ml di protMouoi iJT asi'-rc. a::d -a ?:,•?end S.r Ja-!: -1 wa*driven by sf'.Htr starvation t»»arr».n«»«r. bad he' "art entry t:\-ri Ieent fer I nr r, and t" lt l.t prtxi :ced to &s'r James* faefr libown utter to t:iO •Iff*. Sir "w* the 1 1 i:i'i •. V0-.1 lev) I.. !«»u."

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James, or otherwise—well, or otherwise' you diei' 'I must die all men do, colonel but if I die the secret dies with me.' 'This wo shall see,' answered the colonel, grimly, and old Sir James was marched off to a cell, and there closely confined on bread and water. But he did not die the next day, nor the next, nor for a week, indeed. "Every day he was brought up before the colonel aud questioned as to where the treasure was, under the threat of immediate death, not being suffered meanwhile to communicate by word or sign with any one, save the officers of the rebels, and every day he refused, till at last his inquisitor's patience gave out, and he was told frankly that if he did not communicate the secret he would be •hot at dawn th« following day. "Old Sir James laughed, and said that shoot him they mislit, but that he consigned his soul to the devil if he would enrich thein with bis treasures, and then as' ed that his Bible might be brought to him that he might read therein and prepare himself for death. "They gave him the Bible and left him. Next morning at the dawn a file of Roundbeads marched him out into the court yard of the castle, and here he found Col. Playfair and his officers waiting. 'Now, Sir James, for your last word.

Will you reveal where the treasure lies, or will you choose to die!" '1 will not reveal,' answered the old man. 'Murder me if you will. Tbo act is worthy of boly Presbyters. 1 have spoken and my mind is fixed." 'Bethink you,' said the coloneL

I have thought,' be answered, 'and I am ready. Slay mu and seek the treasure. But one thiug I ask. My young son is not here. In France hath he been this three years, and naught knows he of where'I have hid this gold. Send to him this Bible when 1 am dead. Nay, sor.rr'j it from page to page. There is naught therein save what 1 have writ here upon this last sheet. It is all I havo left to give.' 'The bonk shall he searched,' answered the colonel, "and if naught is found therein it shall be sent. And now, in tho name of God, I adjure yon. Sir James, let not the love of lucre stand between you and your life. Here I make $iu on" last offer. Discover but to us the iMO.tAK) whereof you speak in this writing'—and hu held up the letter to the king—'aud you shall go freerefuse and you die.' '1 refuse,' he answered.

'Musqueteers make ready,' shoutecf the colonel, and the file of men stepped forward. "But at that moment there came up so furious a squall of wind, together with dense and cutting rain, that for awhile tho execution was delayed. I res»3Utly it passed, anil the wild light of the November morning swept out from the sky, ami revealed the doomed man kneeling upon the sodden turf, with the water running from his white hair aud beard, and praying.

They called to him to stand up, but he would not, and continued praying. So thoy shot him on his knees." "Well," said CoL Quaritch, "ut any rate he died liko a gallant gentleman."

At that moment there was a knock at the door, nnil the servant came in. "What is itr asked the squire. "George is here, please, sir," said the girl, "aud says that lie would like to owe "Confound him 1" growled tho old gentleman "ho is alwnys hero after something or other. 1 supposo it is about tho Moat farm, lie was going to soo Jantcr today. Will you recuse me. Quaritch? My daughter will tell vo tho end or tho story if you care to hear anymore. 1 will join you iu tho drawing room."

Continued on Seventh Page.

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