THE HEROINE OF THE MILL, or A LANCASHIRE MAN'S REVENGE.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLI, Issue 2211, 5 September 1910, Page 2

THE HEROINE OF THE MILL, or A LANCASHIRE MAN'S REVENGE.

All Rights Reserved. PROLOGUE. " I tell you," cried Mark Newman, "that I will never give you up. Nothing but death can eome between us." " Hush, Mark !" said Maud Mostyn " You terrify me." " Why, then, not yield to my overpowering love ?" remonstrated Mark, tenderly. " I cannot remember when I have not loved you. There is not a hair of your head that I could not worship, and if you will give me but a little encouragement I will prove myself a better man than I have been." " I cannot love you, Mark, and you have no right to torment me thus." " I know ! Dick Rathbone has supplanted me here, as he has done everywhere. Curses on him ; but I will sweep him from my path as remorselessly as I cut down these nettles that grow by the hedge," Mark hissed between his teeth as he laid his walV ing-sticto mercilessly about him. " Mark Newman," said Maud, solemnly, "where is Nolly Rathbone ?" The man started and turned suddenly towards the moon. The rays fell on a horror-stricken face. Then angry gleams burst from his fierce dark eyes. " Nelly Rathbone—what is she to me ? I know nothing of her." " Then all the neighbours lie," observed Maud, earnestly. " All the neighbours—curse them ! like fiends from the nether regions, conspire to make me a miserable man." " She has never been seen since that night that Bhe went with you to Holt Millfair two months ago." " She left me there to visit some friends," replied Newman sulkily. "I have not seen her since. Am I her keeper ?"—this fiercely. "Oh, Marl I Newman, those words are similar to those of the first murderer." " Good heavens ! between you all 50U will drive me to something desperate," cried the young man. " The name of Rathbone is to be my curse. Had T but the chance I'd keen every owner of it off the earth, and I will too,by all the powers of darkness, to gain my long-cherished ends. Maud, Maud," he continued, "I am not all bad. One look of love from your dark eyes, and I am your slave—your true lover and protector for ever." " I can give you no love, and now I detest and abhor you." «« Oh, don't say that, darling, you are breaking my heart I" pleaded the strange wooer. " I cannot help it. How came you here to annoy me?" asked Maud. " Because I found out that you were in the habit of meeting Dick at this spot," replied Newman. " But you shall never be his, I swear. This dear hand " seizing it—" shall be mine. Nothing shall come between us. I shall never let you go until you consent to be mine." "Release me, Mark. Oh. lot me go !" cried the girl, tearfully, struggling to free ■ herself from his grasp of iron. " Let you go !" hissed her assailant, between his white, clenched teeth —"let you go that you may rush into the arms of my hated rival ! No, you are mine now and for ever !" and in his wild, mad energy he pressed the little hand until she writhed with pain. With a cry and a superhuman effort, Maud tore herself from his grasp. His cane fell, and with that instinct of self-defence the weakest person feels she seized it, and stood like a stag at bay, her large violet eyes glittering with an anger that changed the appearance of the lovely girl for a moment to that of a FunHe advanced upon her. " Stand back, Mark Newman," she cried. " I hate you ! And let this remind you that my hate is as lasting as life." " I'll tame you yet, vixen, and turn your hate to love—to humble, crouching idolatry. You are in my power, I tell you !" cried the infuriated suitor, springing towards her. The Malacca cane glittered for a moment in the light, whizzed sharply through the air, and fell with a dreadful cut upon the face of her unwelcome lover. All this occupied but a moment. The man stood stunned. The girl's heroic demeanour died away as rapidly as it had arisen. With a cry in which horror, fear, and pain were strangely mingled, she fled from under the shadows of the trees through the clustering bushes ■and tangled undergrowth, out into the high r.oad and sped rapidly away in the direction of a line of houses. As she approached the lit-up doorway of the roadside inn she slackened her speed, but not until she had satisfied herself that she was not pursued. Richard Rathbone at this moment came out from the inn looking at his watch, Maud ran almost into his arms, much to the amusement of Raif Worrilow, the innkeeper who had followed his neighbour to the door. The two faces that were thus brought together might have been reflections of each other as far as colour went. The girl was the first to speak. " What has happened, Dick ?" "A great evil to our home," replied her lover, " and I fear worse remains behind." " Any news of Nelly ?" hesitated Maud. " Yes, poor girl. She is lost to us," was his reply. " But she is alive. Thank heaven." "And ruined," bitterly replied the brother.

"Oh, Dick, don't say that," pleaded Maud. " What can I say?" moaned Dick, wearily moving in the direction from which Maud had come. " I'd rather see my pretty sister in her grave than the wife of Mark Newman." " The wife of Mark Newman ! You amaze and alarm me. In pity, Dick, tell me what you mean ?" asked the girl. "Mother is broken-hearted. We've had a letter from Nelly. She is in Liverpool hiding, but she says she is the wife of that villain Newman. He hud better keep out of my sight," cried Rathbone, a stern look rising in his eyes. " Newman's wife !" • exclaimed Maud. " Oh, that can never be." "What do you mean, dear ?" cried Dick, hoarsely, stopping short. " Mark Newman's wife," repeated the astonished girl. " Then he is a greater scoundrel that we thought him. He must be a perfect devil." " I know his vile character better than most people. His career is not fit to be spoken of in the hearing of such as you, Maud. He has brought sorrow and disgrace to more than one home in the city. But what do 50U know of him—l mean to-night ?" asked Dick, wildly and impatiently. "Oh, the monster !" cried the maiden—thinking rapidly, as only women can think—what should she say ? These two men must not meet at present was her first resolve. " Tell me what you mean, dear !" imnlored Rathbone. "Let us return towards home. Do not let us proceed farther in this direction," advised Maud, striving to appear calm. " Good heavens," exclaimed her lover, a light seeming to break in upon him. "Raif Worrilow told me he had noticed Mark pass this way. Have you seen him ?" " Yes." " And what passed between you?" inquired Dick. " Speak Maud, for the love of heaven." "I have seen him"—and she paused. " He has insulted you—l know it. I saw you were running before you came up into the light, but I was so dazed with Nelly's trouble that the fact passed from my mind on meeting you. Has he been annoying you again ?" " Don't be alarmed, Dick. Come home with me and I will tell you all." " I'll not go home with you. I can see that the black-souled rascal has given you offence. Ah, Maud," he exclaimed, his face blanching again, "if he has been making love to you he cannot have married my sister. Poor unhappy Nelly." "Unhappy Nelly!" echoed Maud. " Ah," cried Dick suddenly, " what was I thinking of ? My poor lost Nelly. It is time to cast thought to the wind. Action must now commence. Mine will be as rapid and thorough as the whirlwind. Nelly has no father ; I am her only protector. How have I fulfilled my trust ? I must see the deceiver and demand reparation. Reparation !" he repeated passionately. " There is no reparation for such a deed as his. There is no law formed to punish the callous-hearted scoundrel sufficiently; therefore I must take his punishment in my own hands. I swear it will be most complete ["—unbaring his head, and looking upwards. " What have I done ?" cried Maud Mostyn. " Oh, Dick, leave him in the hands of heaven ! 'Vengeance is mine ' has been spoken by the Ruler of all." "It is a mockery !" cried Rathbone —"How have I prayed for the lost lamb of our flock ? Heaven has not ] heard me. My poor mother has pas- j sed a life of self-denial—passive j obedience —in everything to the Power j above all—active in her charity and good works, and how is she repaid ? By letting the Evil One enter her door, laden with the direst misery j that ever darkened human life. Oh, Maud, Maud, my trust in heaven is j gone ! There is no—" " Hush, Dick," interrupted Maud, I solemnly. " You don't know what , you say. ' Whom the Lord loveth He : chasteneth.' You are angry now. Do ; not seek Mark Newman. Perhaps he has married Nelly after all." "That is only a lesser evil than the other," groaned the sorely-per-plexed brother. " Nay," said his fair comforter. ; " Her honour then is safe ; and I blackhearted as Mark Newman may j be, her pure love may reclaim him." | Maud said this to calm her lover's 1 feelings. She had little belief in I Nelly's marriage, and none at all in the likelihood of Newman's reform. " My heart is breaking, Maud. I must think—think ; then I will see j the demon who has undone us all, 1 and demand my sister from him." | " Go home, dear. Seek counsel in this darkness, and light will come to you," said Maud, tenderly. "My own true lass," he said, as he stood at her mother's door to say good-night, " your words are like oil poured upon troubled waters. Surely your golden hair is the crown of the spirit of peace." "Heaven be with jou, Dick!" murmured his affianced as he kissed her lips, her eyes, her hair, lovingly, j fondly, yearningly. " Good-night Bweet," he whispered. "Good-night, dear," responded Maud. He left her there, and, as a passing cloud obscured the Queen of Night, there reached his ears words that sounded like sweet music steal--1 ing jrently over the strings of an AEolian harp. " You will keep at home, to-night, darling ?" was the murmured mes- ; sage. I She heard no reply and retired ill I at ease—a presentiment of coming evil lying like a load upon her faithful loving heart. She could not sleep ; her brain was too busy to repose upon the pillow. j She rose, wrapped her dressing-gown j around her, and opening the curtains gazed long and anxiously across the far-stretching green meadows. No one was to be seen. 1 With a sense of unutterable and unaccountable fear, Maud looked up the road to the right in the direction of the scene of her alarming interview

with the unprincipled Newman. Not a speck could be seen as far as the eye travelled, except the dark shadows of tree and hedge. Turning to the left she saw the light still burning in the well-known window of her lover's room, and told her heart to be at rest, for he must surely be at home. Richard Rathbone was not there. Had he been the dread influences that spread over the latter years might never have come into existence. After leaving the girl he loved so well, to find that bis mother had retired, he sat down before the supper table ; but he had no appetite for food. Sad. wild thoughts surged through his brain. The closeness of the room became Buflocating, and, gasping for air he ran without purpose, out into the deserted highway. He never knew how it was that he bent his steps in the way he found himself walking until he stood by the swinging gate that led to the meadow walk, He saw nothing of the fair sights around him. The pale, worn face of his mother, weeping over his lost sister, rose before his mental vision, obscuring everything else. Suddenly he became conscious of a tall, dark figure, advancing from the opposite side of the field. With a shout of passionate exultation he vaulted over the gate and stood confronting his evil genius—the betrayer of his sister, For a moment they stood glaring at each other. Then he cried : "Mark Newman, what have you done with my sister ?" " Nothing," was the cold reply. " Liar— cowardly, black-hearted liar —answer me, or I'll crush the falsehood down your throat ! We have heard from her." " Then you know all," said Newman, insolently. " I know nothing but that you have decoyed her away from home — that 50U have ruined her. Dastardly deceiver —disgrace to humanity—you shall answer this night and here, for your devilish wort» ! Your career of crime shall be ended on this spot, and by my hand," he cried. " We are equal now," cried Newman, fiercely. " Curse you, Richard Rathbome —from boyhood you have always thwarted me in every desire. You have robbed me of Maud Mostyn and in revenge I have stolen your sister." " And you dare to own this to me ?" said Richard, sternly and deliberately. " I dare own more. I met your gentle Maud here, to-night." " I know it," was the response. " I swore that she would yet be mine, and I'll keep my word. Do you see this mark," indicating a livid weal crossing his flushed and evil face. ".She did that with my own cane. You are in my way—curse you, you always were ! When we two part to-night, death shall be the cause. I shall kill you—here—that I maj gain the she-devil who has deceived, spurned and struck me. Her life can not be long enough for the punishment I intend to mete out to her for this night's work." "Enough, you heartless fiend!" cried Rathbone. " I have my sister to avenge, and a viper to destroy." "Is it life or death then ?" cried Newman. " One of us shall never leave this field alive," cried Richard. " Let that fate be yours," shouted Newman, suddenly springing upon his opponent. The latter was too quick for him, however. With one dexterous, welldelivered blow straight between the eyes, Richard Rathbone laid him low howling with rage and pain. He was quickly upon his feet again, and thirsting more than ever for revenge. Both were finely-formed men, lithe and supple as trained gladiators of a past age. The fiercest of passions moved them both ; their blood coursed like molten lava through each swollen artery and vein. Their eyes emitted darts of hateful fire, and blows fell like dreadful crashes on the sad silence of the night. What more horrible picture than this can be conjured up !—two men struggling, tearing, breathing hard, trying each to crush the life out of the body of the other, with no eye to witness the deadly contest save that of the Great Unseen who knows and sees all. The antagonists parted often and warily walked round, seeking some advantage. Again and again they met with a dreadful shock. Once more the blows resounded. At length the massive fist of Maud's lover fell again with tremendous force upon the battered face of the betrayer of his sister. Blood spurted in all directions over the conqueror, bathing his aching hands, and sprinkling his garments. " Dead !" he cried, " dead ! And Nelly is free and avenged !" He did not yet realise the horror of the deed. Was not the fight fair? —and did not the object in view sanctify the end ? Yet all was not peace in his breast. He knelt, placed his hand beneath Newman's vest, but no pulsation greeted his touch. Was he justified in this assumption of judge and executioner ? he asked himself. " Whose sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed," flashed across his burning brain. The law of the Scriptures would condemn him ; the law of the land would not palliate his great offence. The whole world would see the curse of Cain upon his brow. With a cry of horror he fled from the spot, leaving his hat upon the trodden turf beside the man whom he had slain. The morning dawned and the hours passed away drearilj ere any footsteps approached the meadow. At length as Maud Mostyn sat down to breakfast, pale and weary, after a sleepless night, the news came from the inn that Mark Newman had been found murdered in a field outside the town with Richard Rathbone's hat lying by his side. She fainted away, and from that time weeks elapsed before consciousness returned. Then she heard that her lover had fled. The proofs against him were conclusive. His bed had not been slept in. Raif Worrilow saw aim hurry in

the direction of the iceae ml the murder as he was retiring t» bed. The face of Mark Newman was so disfigured as scarcely to be recognisable. The clothing, however, set all doubt at rest. Then it came out that the deceased had ruined Nelly Rathbone ; so people had no difficulty in corroborating the verdict of the coroner's jury, which was—- '* Wilful murder against Richard Rathbone !" CHAPTER 1. ONLY A. MILL GIRL—THE MOON- | LIT MEADOW. I A large crowd of eotton spinning and weaving operatives gathered one morning in front of tha colossal mills and warehouses of Messrs. : Ritchison, Bon and Co., Oldchester. i Great excitement prevailed among the people, and this at length cul- ; minated in one of the men getting upon an empty lorry and addressing his fellows. He said : j "Chaps and wenches, I'm nobbut ! one o' thysen, an' awm no great I hond at speechyfication, but I tell ' you what 'tis lads —we wunna stand this no longer. Mesters sit wi' shet doors, and do jest what they called weel plaise. Fower days' wark at the low wage canna Keep sowl and body together, so we're not goin* to knock under any longer, I reckon. We are as good mesters. They canna do without us ; and some of us can do without 'em. Canna we, lads !" " Ay, ay—reet thou art, Abe I" And cheers from the women followed this harangue. "Now," continued the orator, wonderfully encouraged, " I've a piece o' paaper here, which aw'll read ta thee afore guv'nor and t' young mester turns up. It's got no naame at fut on't ; but I warrants it coom fra' a reet quarter. Here's what paaper says : "'Men, and women, too —You used to think Ritchison the fairest mon and best mester i' aa Owdchester but we noo fin' oot that's just t'other way. At a meetin' o' del'gates wi' mesters yesterday, aw the employers wanten to diseuse the question in presence o' the men's men. But Ritchison objects.' " Chap that writes this is a mester now hissen, but was a spinner once ; and he thinks we owt to know that mesters would be agreed to gie the spinners, weavers, card-room workers —in fact everybody—full six days' wark at the pay ye ax. But it's Ritchison as puts a stop to all. I tell thee what he canna deny. Now, thou knowest how to act for theesen." Groans and hisses rose from nearly two thousand throats. " Doon wi' Ritchison !" " Smash t' windows !" " Set fire t* mills!" were now the cries on every hand. " Nay, lads ; let's fire the warehouses. They're chok fu' o' pieces." " Ay, an' that'll mak' room for mair," cried another. As the excitement grew, a crowd of loafing outsiders —chiefly lads always ready for mischief —prepared to put the threats into execution. The crowds surged £o and fro, stones were hurled with dreadful precision, windows were broken, when a person of some importance to us appeared upon the scene. This person of such importance was "only a mill girl." Three sides of the space of ground occupied by the crowd were formed by the mill ; the other boundary was the quay of the river, close to which was built a solid block of masonry, about four feet high, supporting a powerful crane used for loading canal boats and barges. Standing with your back to the river, the space formed a fine amphitheatre. On the right a large arched gateway led to the warehouses behind. On th« left, in the centre of the building, was another great archway leading to the roadway. As a great rush was being made to burst the jrateway open which led behind, Kate o' Fulford's leaped upon the crane supporter, and a murmur spread through the surging mass. A plain white and grey checked shawl covered her head. This she threw off, disclosing a pale face as sharply cut and finely formed as any Grecian goddess. Her well-moulded arms were, as is the fashion of mill<rirls, bare to the shoulders. Her bronze brown hair rippled and waved, althouerh tightly confined, and little coquettish curls peeped forth around her brow and neck. The former was broad and low ; the latter magnificently poised and as round and pure as an alabaster column. After the murmur—silence. Then—another roar and a rush. Kate spoke and every one listened. Her voice was calm but the tones were tinged with contempt. " Eh, lads, but I'm proud o* thee ! You believe what that scoundrel writes on a bit o' paaper in preference to hearing what thy mester, who has been so good to so many o' ye, has to say." Silence again. 1716.

(To be Continued.)