f

 

GELLES AND BGHAUX.

[Frpruary 21, 1874.

 

 

chance manner, placed a thread in his hand
which he was to follow up, to penetrate a mys-
tery. There was another sacrifice, another
pain to be borne, but finally the peace and rest
of which he had dreamed would come.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
THE PRECIOUS CROSS.

THE supper was over in the servants’ room
at Rothcourt, and the butler, Carlo Marini, and
the maids were gathered in a little group by
the open window to gossip.

Oliver Kenn had been smoking on the ter-
race, and afterward he had wandered round to
the stables; finally he had come to the back of
the house, in the listless way of one who has no
settled plan of action. He threw his cigar
away and sat down upon an old garden chair.
The voices of the servants talking by the open
window came distinctly to his ears. For a time
he paid no heed to them, until he heard a name
uttered in Carlo’s voice that riveted his atten-
tion.

“Are you cold this warm evening, Carlo
Marini, that you hover round the fire?” asked
one of the maids, laughing.

“Cold? I am always cold since I lay eight-
and-forty hours lashed to a spar in the sea—
eight - and - forty hours,” repeated Carlo, plea-
santly, yet with dolorous tones. “I don’t think
I’ve really been warm, even in the dog-days,
since then; I think it partly petrified me.”

There was a chorus of quiet laughter, and
then the butler said, curiously:

“That was when you went for a sailor, Car-
lo?”

‘“*Yes—I have never been since, you may
depend; that gale cured me of my fancy for
that profession,” said the Italian. He spoke
English better than his own tongue, lending the
words a certain sprightliness quite his own.

“Then you were shipwrecked? Do tell us
about it, Carlo,” put in the pretty housemaid,
coaxing him.

“« There is very little to tell,” answered Carlo
Marini, warming his hands. ‘‘It wasn’t in the
Atlantic even — only a squall in the Mediter-
ranean, off Corsica. Our barque was the Eloisa,
bound for Marseilles. When I saw-she was
doomed, I lashed myself to a plank and trusted
to the Blessed Virgin. They all perished, every
soul but me; I was in the water eight-and-forty
hours, and then a Spanish frigate picked me up
and carried me off to Tortosa. When we start-
ed from Mergellina, we had a lady on board and
a little child. The child got very ill after two
days’ sail, and the skipper thought it would die;
sc we put in at a little sea-coast town, where
there was a convent, and left them ashore—
the mother and child—or they would have gone
down too with she barque. That was more
than seventeen years ago—I have never been
warm since. Maledictions on the sea, I hate it
cordially !”

His hearers started suddenly, for a dark fig-
ure loomed in the doorway, and the voice of
the young master, sounding strange in that
part of the house, addressed the story teller.

“Carlo, come with me. I want you.”

The Italian left the stove he loved, and fol-
lowed his master through the passages leading
from that part of the house to the other. When
he had reached the library, Oliver Kenn closed
the door and stood face to face with Carlo
Marini.’

“T want to know all that you can tell con-
cerning that voyage you took in the Eloisa—
more than seventeen years ago,” he said,
slowly.

A strange light gleamed in the black eyes of
the Italian as he strove to read the expression
in his master’s face.

‘«T was one of the crew, signor ”—he address-
ed the young man in this way in moments of
forgetfulness; “‘the barque belonged to a Nea-
politan trader, an old man named Mariotta Al-
fieri—he took charge of her himself. I had
known him for some time, but had never sailed
with him before, though I had been to sea four
or five years then. Before we sailed from the
bay of Mergellina—the bay is a few miles along
the coast from Naples—a lady joined us, with
a little boy. She came on board in the evening.
We wondered a little at such a passenger’s join-
ing the barque, but, as she seemed to know
Mariotta, we did not trouble ourselves—for the
reason that sailors get accustomed to strange
things. We put off at break of day, and sailed
with a fair wind, for two or three days keeping
just beyond the coast-line; we were to round
Cape Corso, and so on to Marseilles. Just af-
ter we had sighted Civita Vecchia, the little child,
who had been ailing since we sailed, got very
bad. I don’t think his mother knew, but I
did, when I went into Mariotta’s cabin and
looked at him, that he was sickening for fever.
I think Mariotta Alfieri knew it too. He told
the lady that she must take her child ashore.”

The Italian paused for a moment, casting a
curious glance at his hearer, who stood immoy-
able, betraying no sign of more than ordinary
interest.

“Go on,” he said, steadily. His firm lips
were pressed tightly together; there were hard
lines, telling of strong endurance, about his
forehead and eyes, Carlo Marini saw it all
and marveled.

‘¢ Mariotta Alfieri knew the Mediterranean
coast-line by heart. A little north of Civita
Vecchia is a solitary bay, called, after the con-
vent that stands on a hill looking down upon
it, Santa Croce. Just after nightfall one even-
ing we dropped into the little bay and put out
a boat. Mariotta told the lady that they would
receive her at the convent with the sick child,
and that she would be able to procure a doc-
tor’s assistance. I was sent ashore in charge of
the boat and her—it was but a little way. She
sat in the stern, with the child wrapped ina
cloak in her lap. Iwas a rough fellow, signor,

 

but I was sorry for her and the poor little sick
child. When we had reached the beach I drew
the boat up and left it, while I accompanied
her up to the convent on‘the hill, for I could
not leave her so. She had a little bundle of
things with her; so I took the child in my
arms, and we went together through the de-
serted street that lay in the shadow of the
hill. As we drew near to the convent gate I
gave her back the boy—he seemed in a heavy
sleep, only just moaning now and then. She
thanked me, and gave me some money, with a
little gold crucifix that she took from her throat
—to keep in remembrance of my kindness to
her child, she said. I put the bundle down,
and pulled the great bell of the convent; and
then I left her—for I dared not stay—I knew
the skipper would be impatient for my return.
I did not fear that they would turn her away
from the gates of Santa Croce. I never heard
of her again. The barque perished off Cape
Corso, in a gale, with old Mariotta Alfieri and
all the crew but me—I was a strong man then,
sir, and I lived after being eight-and-forty
hours in the water.”

‘Have you the crucifix now?” asked Oliver
Kenn, quietly.

“Tt has lain on my breast ever since, sir,” re-
plied the old man.

He did not tell that through many days of
want and poverty he had kept the little gold
relic with loving reverence, almost as part of
himself.

“T want you to lend it to me for a little
while, Carlo. I will hold it asa sacred charge,
and return it soon.”

For no one else would Carlo Marini have cut
the black ribbon that bound it to his throat. He
laid the glittering cross in his master’s hand,
and respectfully went out of the room.

When the closing door had left him alone,
Oliver Kenn took the gold crucifix to the table,
held it close to the light of the lamp, and bent
his keen gaze upon it.

He scanned it closely. Yes, there it was, the
first link of a great mystery to be followed up,
or, if he willed it, to be left in oblivion forever.

Three initials in old Roman capitals were on
the back of the crucifix that had been given to
Carlo Marini by a woman standing in the night-
fall with a little child at the convent gates of
Santa Croce, waiting for them to be opened
that she might find a refuge—three initials,
“tN”

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MEETING ON THE SANDS.

THE tide was going out, leaving the yellow
sands and the brown rocks glistening in the.
July sun. Among the rocks were little pools
wherein tiny fish nestled and waited for the bil-
lows to come back and roll over them again.
Pink and white and brown seaweed lay on the
sand, lifting up feathery sprays to the sunshine.
In a nook, sheltered by the cliff from sun and
wind, yet open to the sea in front, sat two girls,
one reading, the other with idle hands folded in
her lap, and her face turned toward the ebbing
tide. If her hands were idle her thoughts were
busy. Presently the reader stopped and looked
at her companion; an amused smile broke over
her face, the smile ending in a laugh; the light
rippling sound made the other turn with a
quick start.

“Beattie, you were not listening—where
were your thoughts?” “

“Over the water just then, Sybil, in the old
chateau where I lived with aunt Margaret,”
answered Beatrix, slowly.

“Was it so pleasant a life?’ asked Sybil
Dare, carelessly.

“T thought so then. When I first came
home and looked back, I wondered that I
could have been so happy at the chateau.
Now I regret the loss of that sweet and peace-
ful life that was so free from the troubles of
the world and wild emotions of the heart, like
acalm autumn day after the radiant spring
and the glowing summer have passed.”

She spoke dreamily, half to herself. Sybil
Dare paid scarcely any heed to the speech—it
was a little beyond her. In silence she read
to the end of the chapter that she was interest-
ed in; then she closed the book and jumped
up.
“T shall go and call for mamma and the
girls at the reading-room, Beattie. Are you
coming?”

“Presently. Iam rather tired, Sybil, but I
will come and meet you.”

Sybil Dare went off, treading the shingle
with the elastle step of youth and health.
Her sun-shade was held before her face, so
she did not see a gentleman who was leaning
idly against the gunwale of a pleasure-boat.
He saw her, and something familiar about the
slight figure made him look after her. One
glance was sufficient—a moment afterward he
turned to that part of the jutting rocks which
she had just left.

Beatrix was leaning back against the brown
rock, stillidle. Her thoughts were busy again
—not at the old chateau now, but under the
lime tree at the Reedes; hearing, not the plash
of the waves, but a low voice speaking of a
love that should live calm and sweet through a
world’s tempest of pain and suffering, to arise
unhurt and bloom to a perfect end.

A shadow fell at her feet, and she lifted her
eyes. Oh, the joy that flashed out of them,
the radiant gladness of the blush that rose
er to her forehead as she sprung to her

eet!

“Mr. Noel! You here?’

“Yes,” was the quiet answer; “I am
spending my summer holiday among the
rocks.”

He did not tell her that he had chosen this
little seaside place only with the object of see-
ing her perhaps once or twice—only seeing

 

‘both. Both knew it too well.

 

her, not to speak or to touch her hand. This
chance meeting was full of bitter sweetness for
Yet for the
time they cast out the bitterness with the tide.
It would return by-and-by, tossing and leap-
ing in great waves toward them, but now it
was far out—almost, not quite out of sight.
Beatrix looked at the handsome face, the
sunny gray eyes, the nut-brown hair beside
her, and was happy. The summer breezes
tossed her long, unbound hair about her flush-
ed and happy face and downcast eyes, hiding
their gladness as with a vail.

 

“Here is a letter for you,” said Sybil,
meeting Beatrix on the hotel staircase, and
placing itin her hand. ‘I won’t tell of you,
but you are very naughty, Beattie.”

Beatrix looked up startled at Sybil’s smiling
face.

“Yes, I know, dear, but I won’t tell,” and,
with a reassuring kiss, Miss Sybil Dare floated
down the staircase. i

The Dares knew of Miss Rutherford’s broken
engagement, and a backward glance this
morning had shown Sybil a tall figure enter-
ing the little cove where Miss Rutherford sat
alone. When, after a prolonged absence, dur-
ing which she missed luncheon, Beatrix re-
turned, flushed and happy - looking, Sybil
“put this and that together” with a girl’s
quick intuition, and leapt to a conclusion.

Full of other thoughts, Beatrix put the let-
ter in her pocket, and forgot it till the even-
ing, when a chance remark of Mrs. Dare’s re-
minded her of it. The handwriting was
Georgie’s.

“‘T wonder what Georgie has to write about
again—lI had a letter from her the day before
yesterday,” she said, carelessly, as she broke
the seal.

It contained but a few words, and Beatrix
read them with shocked surprise. Lord Roth
was dead.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
CLUE UPON CLUE.

Ir was very sudden. Lord Roth’s servant,
entering his chamber one morning, had found
him dead in his bed—the ancient bed with its
purple velvet hangings, wherein many Roths
had died, but none so suddenly or silently as
this one. In the secret watches of the summer
night death had entered the chamber, laid an
icy hand on the troubled heart, and stilled it
forever.

The funeral had taken place. Philip Haugh-
ton, summoned from his Cornish home, Squire
Rutherford, and Oliver Kenn had followed as
chief mourners—after them, all the Rothbury
tenants in procession.

To the world Oliver Kenn was the present
Lord Roth—Philip Haughton, courteous and
polished as of old, had acknowledged him as
such; his cousin’s secret had never been reveal-
ed to him—-the two who only could have dis-
closed it had kept it well. Adrian Ruther-
ford, too, had addressed the young man by his
dead friend’s title. Oliver Kenn had heard
and answered in his grave way. He would
keep the secret a little longer. He held one
end of a thread in his hand; when he had fol-
lowed its windings to the utmost limit, and
read what he should find there, then, and not
till then, would he reveal all.

Philip Haughton returned to Cornwall upon
the day following the funeral. In the evening
Oliver Kenn entered Lord Roth’s private
room, and seated himself before the old-
fashioned davenport. He held its keys in his
hand; yet he sat long, with a thoughtful ex-
pression on his face, before he opened~ it.
What tale, what long-hidden mystery, would
its contents reveal to him?

He placed the key in the lock, turned it
slowly, and lifted the lid. There they all lay
—papers, letters, memoranda, books—in care-
less confusion, as the dead man had left them
last. He handled them reverently, laying
some aside, arranging others in neat piles,
scanning all lest he might miss one that con-
tained a clue to what he sought.

Hours passed, and his task was unfinished—
when it grew dark, he lighted the lamp and
continued his search. It was nearly midnight
when he closed the desk—he had replaced the
papers and documents, reserving only three.
One was a tiny slip of blue paper, carelessly
written and signed ‘‘ Adrian Rutherford,” con-
taining a promise on the writer’s part to give
the estate called Free Chase, with all its reve-
nues, to his daughter Beatrix on the day she
married Lord Roth’s son; the second, a little
packet of letters written in a girlish hand to
Reginald, Lord Roth, and signed “‘ Ellen Noel ”
—fond, loving letters, written during their
brief courtship, and bearing a date of two-and
twenty years ago; the third, another letter
written in that same hand, but dated four years
later. The last was signed “‘ Ellen Roth,” and
on the outside was, “In the hands of Rachel
Kenn, for my husband, Lord Roth.

 

The Squire was taking his after-dinner nap
when aservant brought hima message. Young
Lord Roth was in the library, and wished to
see him in private. He said nothing to his
wife and Georgie, but with unusual wisdom on
his part, quietly repaired to the library.

‘‘You were Lord Roth’s friend, Mr. Ruther-
ford,” said the young man, slowly: “will you
be mine also ?” 5

““My dear boy,” cried the Squire, surprised,
“of course I will—I always have been your
friend as well as your father’s.”

“T have some work to do, and I find that I
cannot do it without help—such help as only a
friend ean give: I am going to ask you to help
me,”

oe a

 

“Tll do anything for you, Reggy,” said the
Squire, impetuously.

He was always ready to plunge headlong
into any ditch if requested. It was his great
fault, and had made him a few enemies but
legions of friends.

“Thank you,” was the answer, ‘but first I
must tell you what it is.”

 

Two days later Oliver Kenn returned to
Rothcourt Hall from London, whither he had
gone immediately after his interview with
Squire Rutherford. ‘“‘ Now,” he thought, ‘‘there
is nothing for me but to wait.”

 

A little man, with keen brown eyes, crisp
black hair and whiskers, a gray overcoat, and
carrying a black leather bag, alighted from the
London express as it stopped at the little station
eight miles from Rothbury, on a wet afternoon
early in August. He gave the solitary porter
a shilling to ofder a fly from the inn, and then
waited with exemplary patience until it was
ready.

“Drive to Rothcourt Hall,” he said to the
driver.

It was a long drive, and the horse took it
leisurely, but the contents of the black bag fur-
nished the tenant of the fly with occupation un-
til the vehicle had stopped at the entrance to
Rothcourt.

Oliver Kenn was in the library when Carlo
brought him a card bearing the inscription,
“Mr. George Gower, Gray’s Inn.”

“« Ask the gentleman to walk in,” he said,

He rose to his feet, his face becoming pale ;
the hand he extended to his guest was tremb-
ling. Mr. John Gower cast a swift glance at
the anxious face; his own looked as if it were
adamant.

“T am glad to see you,” said the young man,
in a voice which he tried hard to keep steady.
‘‘Have you been successful ?”

“T have followed your lordship’s instruc-
tions, and I have been, I flatter myself, em-
inently successful,” was the calm reply.

Oliver waited, subduing his restless anxiety
by simple force of will. Mr. Gower unlocked
the black bag, and proceeded to draw forth cer-
tain blue papers; then he placed a chair near
the center table.

“Tf your lordship will be seated, I will pro-
eeed to read the notes and memoranda I have
made with scrupulous accuracy,” said Mr.
Gower, complacently.

Oliver Kenn sat down to listen.

 

The story contained in the ‘ notes and mem-
oranda” was told. In the dining-room Mr.
Gower was regaling himself upon cold turkey,
ham, and Bordeaux, with an urbane smile up-
on his lips. But, even while discussing a ten-
der slice of the breast, he found time to wonder
a little concerning certain recent occurrences.

*‘Seems a nice fellow, that Lord Roth,” he
mused. ‘I think he was rather affected.
Wonder what all this means? The name on the
garment which they showed me at the convent
was Roth. [ll make a note of it on my own
account, and keep my eyes open. And I wonder
— H’m! how far is it to Ickston?

The last few words he spoke aloud to the
servant waiting upon him.

‘‘More than five miles, sir.”

“Wm! I think I won’t return to London just
yet”—Mr. Gower continued his musing—“ Tl
go over to Ickston and take an apartment—say
for a week. I should like to see the man called
Reginald Noel, who is master of the School of
Art, and who a year ago was teacher of draw-
ing in a London academy.

 

Oliver Kenn was standing in the picture-gal-
lery before the portrait of a lady, and looking
earnestly at it. It was a sad face on which fell
the rays of the lamp that he held—a sad face
bearing the lingering light of its girlhood’s
gladness on the sorrowful brow. Calm gray
eyes, touching in their pa ience, met his own ;
heavy nut-brown tresses adorned the low brow.
As he gazed, a shudder shook his strong frame.

“Tt is the same face,” he murmured. ‘‘ Why
did I not discern it before? The same face,
save that this is sad and the other is still un-
clouded—not quite unclouded of late, I fancy,
but brighter than this, Yes, it is true—not a
wild fancy, but a stern, living truth. I have
put my hand to the plow, and I will not look
back. Yet that it should be thisman! What
mysterious power, what fate, has wrought this
strange event? Beatrix, my lost, my only
love, I will not forget the vow that I made
when your head lay upon my breast! For
your dear sake I will trace the sin to the bit-
ter end—for your sake I will remember and
fulfill my promise !”

(To be continued.)

 

 

“There is a valley that so soft in dreams,
In dreams of sleep and dreams of reverie,
Comes back to haunt me, that it ever seems
Part of my inner self, and I to be
Growth of itssoil and sun. I see
The wood-crowned hills low rounded in their
green,
Circling in sweet embrace the meadows fair,
Where willow-fringed flows on the gurgling
stream
In pools and ripples, while all the sunny air
Is filled with songs of birds and wild perfume,
As if the flowers themselves were set to tune;
I hear the honey bee
Well laden, humming drowsily
Like some argosy,
That floats in music on a summer sea;
I hear the jay
Scream its harsh alarum far away,
While by the brook the blackbird’s merry note
Trills in flute-like music from its tiny throat.”

i ac ee

 

 

 

 

 

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