KATE HOWARTH'S DEVOTION.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XLIII, Issue 2285, 19 February 1912, Page 2

KATE HOWARTH'S DEVOTION.

Copyright.

By the Author of "Thfe Heroine of the Mill," Etc. PART 8. CHAPTER IX. ON THE LEDGE OP THE OLD TOWER. Trade had not been prosperous lately with Dan Howarth, but he was of the most cheerful temperament and v«ry few misfortunes to himself would much spoil his equanimity. On the morning after the fire he had to drive into Bolton, and he was whistling cheerfully when he alighted from his smart cart at the gateway of the Old Swan Inn, in Bradshaw gafte. The news had already reached the stablemen and waiters, and the interest was something intense when Dan Howarth was seen driving up. " Have you not heard the news, Dan ?" said the old ostler, who had come forward to take his "nag" out of the vehicle. " Ay, Dick, I've heard the last." " And what may that be now ?" inquired the old man, nearly boiling over with the intelligence he was thus for a moment thwarted in delivering. •• Out with it," said Dan, seeing by the manner of the others that something concerning him closely, and ol no good import, was about to be communicated. " Well, I likes to prepare people for bad news," said old Dick, more tantalizingly than ever. " Your John " " Yes, John—what about him ?" asked Dan turning strangely pale. " Poor John, he was burnt out of house amd home—stock, lock and barrel—last night, as ever was." " Let go those reins," cried Dan, leaping into the cart, and tearing the leather lines from the amazed ostler's hands. " Had you not better do your business first ?" began the old man. " Confound business," was the dyer's cry, as he threw a silver coin to the man. The next moment he was galloping down the then narrow street at a pace that would now have won him a fortnight's imprisonment without the option of a fine. In less than half an hour he drew rein in front of the charred remains | of poor Jack's once happy home. " Thy John's in next door," said j a neighbour. He saw the woman he had magnanimously given up to his brother, Bitting pale and dejected by that i brother's side. ! He had no words for her, and she could only glance up into his face, j and hang her head afterwards like one who had been guilty of at least a misdemeanour in the eyes of the justices. I Dan's heart was too full to speak. ! " Come, Katey, lass," he said, " I j want to speak to you." j The little maiden followed him out ' of the room, and putting a piece of i gold into her hand, he whispered : j " Give that to your mammy and i tell her there must be no more cry- i ing." 1 " But she must cry, Uncle Dan, till j Freddie comes home." " Till Freddie comes home !" ech- ' oed the man. " Where's he gone ?" " Man with the big black horse ran away with him," was Katey's reply. " Will you bring him back ?" '" I will that," said Dan, stoutly. " And now run to your mammy, and say I'm coming back in awhile." He went quietly and got all the particulars of the occurrences of the night before—with the inevitable embellishments —from the too-ready idlers in front of the tavern. Then quietly and delicately, as the most gently nurtured person might have done, he went and rented an empty house in the close vicinity of the fburnt-out home. He set three " handy women " into it to clean it thoroughly and light fires and going away he gave then an earnest fee, saying at the same time : " I'll be back with furniture in two hours. Mind you're done by then." In less than two hours he arrived with two large carts laden with the old-fashioned furniture of which he had a store down in the dye-house, and on the summit of one of the loads sat Aunt 'Liza in her Sunday's best garments. " You mustn't make a noise," said Dan. " Jack's badly;" and the usually rough man stepped gently as a child while he was superintending the "flitting" until the new home was an accomplished fact. He then went to the local surgeon —Dr. Mann—and asked if his brother might be removed into the new house. That gentleman could not make the order on his own responsibility. Silently he drove to Radcliffe Bridge, and returned with Dr. Russell, under whose authority and superintendence the injured man and his family were moved into the new home. This, however, .was not accomplished before Lady Northenden put in an appearance. She had just heard of the misfortune of her humble friends and bad hurried over to offer them some assistance. " They're in need of none, as long as I've got anything," said Dan. " I must tell you, my man," said Lady Northenden, " that I think you a fine fellow. I have heard Wogen speak of you, and I shall take care that your prompt kindness here will not be forgotten, for it is kind even though the poor people are your relatives. Is there anything I can do to assist you?" j " Yes," said Dan, bluntly. "There | is one thing, ma'am, you can do and it won't cost you much." j " What is that, my good fellow?" Dan winced. He did not like my lady's pationising ways. Neverthe- i less, he answered as civilly as possible : ,

—fou can tell me where to find my nevvy Freddie." The lady was genuinely astonished, and expressed her astonishment in a few brief but strong words. " I don't know where the boy is. Why should you ask me ?" " Because," said Dan, nothing daunted by her most imposing manner, " from what I can hoar, the horse that carried him away last

night came from your stables;" and he turned upon his heel in a most disrespectful manner. Lady Northenden became angry first, and then thoughtful. The memory of the horseman came back to her, and the momentous interview with, her husband. Poison, then, she concluded, had carried the boy off by his master's instructions. On her ride home, the question that puzzled the lady was—"Where has he put the boy ? Where has he hidden him ?" And then tne /terrible thought rose—" Has he murdered him already ?"

She found Lord Northenden in high spirits, and not at all in the mood in which he was when they parted the night before. He avoided her evidently, and seemed to have made up his mind to surpass himself as an inordinate imbiber of strong drinks. Since he appeared to have no intention of resuming the terrible conversation of the night, she concluded to watch him all that day. Neither Ladj Northenden nor Dan Howarth had noticed that little Katey was a listener when he boldly affirmed that a horse from her ladyship's stables had carried the boy away.

That night the girl was a long time before she could sleep. She wished to remain by the bedside of papa,but Aunt 'Liza would not permit that. This austere lady bundled Nelly—tired and exhausted—to bed, and Katey with her. The latter was troubled with terrible dreams. As the clock struck three, she woke from a fitful slumber, In which she had a heart-rending vision. It was only a repetition of the scene in which she had already in real life acted a prominent part. The great black charger of the new Lord Northenden was pawing the air above the head of poor Freddie and she was tied to something like a rack and could not go to his rescue. She awoke with a cry, but that did not awaken the heart-bro*«n woman by her Bide. The fire in the new bedroom was burning brightly, so she got up, and, clad only in her white l nightgown stole gently down stairs to the back parlour, where Aunt 'Liza fast asleep in her chair, held gua~d over her still insensible nephew John. Uncle Dan's words came back to the child's memory with terrible significance, and in an agony of fear she repeated aloud — " The horse that carried him away last night came from your stables." Who can probe the mystery of the human mind ? No logical process of reasoning led to the rapid resolution made by thi6 child. Without a moment's delay, Katey returned to her bedroom, dressed herself as was her habit. Then she crept down again, determin:d to see if " that bad man had trampled her brother to death."

With footfalls light as those of the angels, she entered the room of the injured man once more. Aunt 'Li&a still slept. Her father's handsome face was still and white as marble. Without the slightest noise she climbed a chair placed beside the bed on the side opposite her aunt. Kissing the blue lips of her father, she murmured the words she had always been taught—- " God bless dear papa !" and he opened his eyes wearilj. When they met her night-like orbs a radiant smile came into his and he murmured, although with pain—- " Katey, my pet !" and then, after a little pause, he said, " Where's Freddie ? Bring him here, will you, lass ?" and then he relapsed into silence. " Papa's tired," she said. " He wants Freddie, and I must go and, find him." The outer door was only on the latch, and she had no difficulty in opening it. She sped down the moonlit streets like a shadow. Turning to the right she reached the canal whose crystal surface now deflected the moon's wake. This, like a bar of silver, shone up in her eyes, and gave h?r courage and hope until she reached the memorable bridge. Then she turned to the right and boldly held on towards the residence of the bad man whose horse in her dream she had seen trampling upon poor Freddie. The gilded gates were barred, and so she sat down on one of the corner stones, and cried. Presently she remembered having wandered with the absent boy into the plantation. Drying her tears she set out once more, and fearlessly entered the grove we have already seen Poison and his horse traverse. High up in the rear of Hoghtonf Hall she saw a light burning. It was long and narrow, and she became fascinated by it, because it was in that portion of the building wJhich Freddie had told her was the ancient tower from which " knights in arntour and floating plumes had ridden away to the wars " in the long back time. We are only chronicling the actions of the child ; it would be impossible to account for them. She; followed the path in the hollow already described, and passed the hidden entrance to the private lawn behind the library. At length she found herself at the foot of The broken tower, and the light afeone* brightly fifty feet above her head. Behind that light the child believed her brother would be found. She sat down upon the damp, mossy bank, and cried because she could not reach him. Raising? her pretty tear-dimmed eyes, she found the moon almost behind the jagged edge of the old building, where the masonry had been rent asunder. Accident had formed a rude series of steps by which a daring heart

' might ascend to the close vicinity of the light. Without a moment's hesitation she i began to climb. Stones and mortar j were hard as iron, and she felt se- . cure whenever a footing could be I gained. At last she looked around, j Higher she could not go ; but that - was unnecessary, because she was 3 already level with the light. ; ; Alas ! That was far distant—t | Twenty feet at least, she afterwards ; knew. A narrow ledge of masonry, not ' much wider than the length of her own foot, ran right along the wall ) and under the illuminated casement. ■ Ingenious and daring beyond her , years she climbed higher and stepped J upon this. Turning her back to the . wall she tried to advance, but the ; great depth in front of her made her i dizzy and sick at heart, i Retreating to her starting point, > she set out again, with her face to i the wall, her tiny fingers clutching at every projecting stone. A cry of ! joy arose to her lips as she clasped t j the broad sill of the ancient case- , ment ; but that was quicMly changed . to a shriek of terror when she saw, , withiu a circular stone apartment, . Freddy lying pale and bloody upon a strange-looking couch, and a wild, . red-faced man about to plunge a long, glittering, steel knife into the I boy's breast. The man's movement, the child's shriek, and the entrance of a tall 1 figure clad all in white to the room occurred almost instantaneously. The next moment the white figure caught " j the man's arm, wrested the knife from his grasp and strode to the ! window. With a wild moan of fear, despair and horror, the child relaxed i her hold upon the stone in front of her, reeled helplessly, and fell Into the awful gulf below. CHAPTER X. THE RED SPOT IN THE WALNUT TREE. We must now briefly account for the exciting events chronicled at the close of the last chapter. It has already been stated that Lord Northenden evidently was in no haste to resume deliberations with his wife on the subject broached in the library on the night before. Because he seemed to avoid her now, all her old and unreasonable suspicions came back ; so after her return from Halshaw Moor, she resolved, as we j have said, to watch him closely. The afternoon passed away and she i became conscious of the faet that her lord and master was imbibing deeply as usual. | Was he nerving himself, she asked herself—a hundred times, to destroj the boy—or had the vile deed been done already, and was he now endeavouring to drown remorse and the voice of an accusing conscience in the ' bottle ? I The master of the house did not appear at the dinner table, and this added not a little to the lady's uneasiness, and of course stimulated her curiosity regarding the cause of his remaining so long in the library. I Leaving the dining-room she determined to descend and visit his lordship's retreat. She had placed her foot upon the last step of the broad : oaken stairs, when she beheld the man Poison pass across the hall with a tray containing a basin of soup, a piece of chicken, and the usual seasonings, with bottles and glasses. | She drew back, until the man had disappeared under the maroon-colour-ed portiere of the library. " There is someone concealed there" j she said to herself. And, strange to f say—so perverse is the human mind ] in its workings—it never entered aI mong her thoughts that the stolen j boy should be the hidden person. Determined to solve the mystery at ! once and for all, Lady Northenden I descended to the door of the library, i and turned the handle. Tt was of no t use ; the bolts were drawn. She knocked. j " Who is there ?" asked Lord \ Northenden, evidently confused. | "It is I," she answered, fiercely. j " Why do you not open the door at i once ?" Something was mumbled about | " business," and then the door was i opened by Poison, past whom the lady swept majestically—her hands , clenched and her eyes flashing the anger she felt painfully. Fully anticipating a discovery of a momentous nature, the immediate effect of her entry was depressing in the first place, and irritating in the second. j Lord Northenden had the damaskcovered tray in front of him on a corner of the great long table, and i was quietly sipping his soup. I "To -what am I to attribute the honour and pleasure of this unexpected visit?" he stammered with mock courtesy. She be#an a sentence that was never Lnished, because Poison made no movement to leave the room. j "I came for ' Faust '; I left it on the table. Where can it have got to ?" i "I restored it to its place on the shelves," said the master of the i house, with forced sweetness of manner. " Shall I get it for you ?" j " Never mind," she said. " I am | tall enough to reach it for mjself I without your aid ;" and she raised her hand to the high shelf and took . down the volume. Then she left the I room with her book and turned to j ascend to her apartments, but not j before she heard the master cry to | the man • " Shut that door, confound you, and open it again to no one under , any circumstances !" She went half-way up the stairs thoughtfully, and halted when she reached, the level of the sill of the | great illuminated window. She never knew what caused her to pause I there and put the volume down. It was certainly no clearly-defined resolution, comiog from sustained thought ; it was simply the effect of ■what is called impulse, a nd therefore no trifling factor in the bands of unknown fate. A very few minutes had elapsed . since she left the library and it was not necessary to take her eyes off door in fcer circling ascent. Step-

ping lightly 1 down and drowning the noise of her high-heeled shoes by stepping on the Persian rugs, scattered over the tesselated pavement of the hall, she again approached the door, raised the portiere, turned the handle, rnd entered the room, to find it vacant ; not a trace to be seen of jord Northennen, Poison, or the tray nd its contents.

With a cry of surprise, and somehing like triumph, she rushed to one »f the two French windows opening from the deep embrasures of a former fortalice. not with the expectation of seeing the missing man in the private paddock or enclosure, but nly to make assurance doubly sure. The place was silent and unoccupied—that was easily seen in the early twilight ; and so she returned to tbe library and began calling, at first gently and then loudly, the name of her lord and master. But no sound came in reply, save the echo of her own voice. Resolutely she drew the velvetcushioned, cilcular-backed chair up in front of the fire, vowing to herself that she would remain there until she had solved this mystery. Three pink-globed lampß stood upon the long, crimson-leather topped table. She rang the bell. A footman appeared. " Light this lamp," she said. • When he had done so, she ordered him to throw more coals on the fire —as the night was chilly. " Bring me the book you will find on the window-sill of the staircase." The man did so, and said : "Anything else, m'lady ?" "Send Mrs. Screel to me." Mrs. Screel came to be questioned about the possibility of secret chambers in the house. All that lady could say was that on more than one occasion the household had been surprised in the old lord's time by finding the library vacant, when a few minutes before that gentleman had been seen to enter the place. Mr. Wogan was next sent for, and he was not in a position to add to the information—at least he said^so. Lady Northernden had taken a •dislike to this man. He was not a lovable individual, it is true, but still he was an old and trusted servant, and the late peer was not the man to admit people of questionable character into his household. " And you absolutely know nothing of these secret places, Wogan—if there are any ?" said the disappointed peeress. "All that I know, my lady, is this," he returned—" that someone must haves got another set of keys for my) fcellars, or there's some secret way of getting into them." "My cellars !" she repeated. " I should think that the cellars were ours and not yours. Let that pass, however, and explain yourself. What do you mean ?" "I mean, ma'am," returned the man bluntly, " that last night we had only three dozen left of the old port and this morning there were only two dozen and ten." " Are you sure that the empty noddles are nod in your pantry ?" " Quite sure, my lady," he returned, colouring deopls at the insinuation. " Well, I am nod so sure," she exclaimed, carelessly. " I only know that in the future every servant in thia house, will be held responsible for what is under his charge. So you do nod know how your master could haf left this room without going out of that door ?" " I know nothing about it," replied the mortified Wogan. " And what's more," be continued, "with all due respect to your ladyship, I don't believe it." " You are insolent," she cried rising angrily. "My eyes never left the door, so I cannot be mistaken." "Oh, yes, you are, my dear Sophia !" cried his lordship himself, opening the door from the hall — which had not been secured (by the latch—and entering, much to the amazement of the housekeeper and tbe butler, but to the extreme annoyance of his wife. " Just he kind enough," she cried, angrily, " to erblain all this foolishness. What does it mean ? Why should you and that Bolson fellow run away with the soup and chicken ? If you gan answer me, do so at once, blease, for I must get at the bottom of dese mysteries." "We will not discuss the matter before the servants," Lord Northenden returned, with something of his lost dignity and he waited until Mrs. Screel and Mr. Wogan had retired. " I will not be treated as I have been," cried the viscountess. " I am sure you have someone concealed here —either the lady I spoke of —" " Don't be absurd," he cried, turning upon her angrily. " I am not absurd," she answered. " I know you. You plot and plot against me." " No, no !" "It must be against me, nince you will not con vide in me. Last night you promised to consult with me on the subject of that boy. All day you avoid me, and when I watch you I discover jou have flown through the walls. I have been to Halshaw Moor. That boy was stolen last night by a man on horseback. Who the man wae I do not know, but the horse was yours—the one that stood without last night waiting for Bolson to take him to the stables. You have the boy concealed here somewhere. Perhaps you have killed him. Is so we are lost combletely, -for he will most certainly be traced to us ; and then what remains for us but the gallows ? Ah, you may tremble ! They haf hanged a peer before now ; and what will remain for me and my children ? Nothing but infamy—the disgrace of being gonnected with a man who had not the brains to rid himself of some berson that was obnoxious without leaving the possibility of discovery beyond doubt. You have foolishly blaced yourself in the power of a servant. • Where is the boy ? He must be' at once liberated. When he comes to be in our power, it must' <be openly and by the gonsent of the Halshaw people and then his fate must be sealed aa openly."

The woman ran through the foregoing speech at what would now be called express speed, clearly betraying that her brain had been busy on the subject since the night before, and that her plans were mature and guilelrss in appearance, however nefarious they might prove. (To be continued.)