PAYING THE PRICE.

Evening Star, Issue 11683, 15 February 1902, Page 2

PAYING THE PRICE.

(Published by Special Arrangement.)

By John W. Matatj. (Author of ‘Bitter Blood,’ ‘Dr Juvenal’s I‘alient.’ ‘A Girl Resource,’ “Grasping the Shadow,’ etc,, etc).

[Copyright] CHAPTER I. TUB VAGABONDS. They were tramps. He was a typical villain, short and sturdy, no nock to speak of, his head bullet-shaped, his clean-shaven lips stamped with the hallmark of cruelty. His dress was irg perfect harmony with her parson. A wtfm fur cap covered his c.fosely-cmpped head, while a gaudy scarf was twisted round his bull neck. His other garments were in various stages of dilapidation, and hi* daily occupation of tramping the Queen’s highway hud resulted in a. thick powdering of dust, which, however, failed to hide his many defects. His companion was a woman—his wife. She was quite young, and though her dress was shabby, there was an indefinable “ something ” in her appearance which distinguished her from (ho ordinary vagabond Certainly she lacked the low caste of feature one usually expects to find in those whose lives have been spent in crime. On the contrary, her face bore a look almost of refinement, and it was easy to see that before misfortune had overtaken her she had been decidedly pretty. She was pale and haggard now, however. Want and trouble had set their mark upon her; and as she sat in the shady hedgerow on this broiling August afternoon a tear trickled slowly down her cheek. At. (hat moment her husband awoke from his slumbers, and as he witnessed her grief an ugly scowl came to his villainous face. “Wot! Pnivellin’ agin!” he growled, wngTilv. " Yer enough to sicken any man, angrily. ‘‘ Yer enough to sicken any man.. Wot’s up now?” " Nothing. Bill ” —wiping her eyes hastily. “I was only• thinking.” “An’ wot might, yer ’ave> bin thinkin’ about, if one might ask?’’ he said, in tones of strong sarcasm. Oh. first of one thing, then of another.” making a poor attempt to treat the oiie>:ion in a flippant manner. “ Perhaps ye wos a-wishin’ as yer'd never m rried me, eh?” ' An' if I did wish that?" she said, quietly, “ would it lie strange? Haven’t von done your best! to make me wish it? No o:hcr irirl would have stood what I’ve dor.c. They’d have left yon long since.” " An’ why don’t- yer leave me? Ter can. ver know." ■' You know why I don’t leave von,” she 'oil!, in low, sad voice. “You know that I care for you too much, and I want to -.lvc yon from going to the bad.” " Now, look ’ere.” he began, wamingly, “ I've told yer afore ” " T know you have,” she interrupted quickly ; ” but I will speak. It’s time T spoke. Bill. I never thought you’d take to thieving. 1 could have stood anything but that. I’m thankful at times I haven’t anyone m the world related to me, for I con hi never meet them now and hold up my head." "Ah, that’s yer pride," ho said. “If ver 'ad your way I should still a bin slavin’ at the ironworks worse than any dray horse. Yer’d ’a bin satisfied to a gone on drudgin’ iur ever. Now, wot I want is tor become the landlord of a little pub, an’ to ’ave a gig to drive one in o’ Sundays. An’ wot’s more, 1 don’t mean to rest until I’ve got it." " Anti li-ciw art- yon goioc; to get. it? I know. You’re going to take to this thieving work reg’lar." " Yer*ve ’it it-.' That's how I mean to get it." " Ay; others have got it, haven’t they?” she slid, with bitrer scorn. “Remember what happened when you robbed the till at the Jolly Carter. Havu you forgotten the six months you goi ?" “Oh, I was a hit unlucky, that wos all. Yer stop yer jawin’. I married yer for ver to do just as yer wor told.” " I’ve, done that long enough," she replied, bitterly. ” I want you to he an honest man, and I shall go on trying to make you one till the hist. Let me go to the master of these works in the town we came through this morning and, ask him if he won’t give you a job.” These words .seemed to exasperate him

beyond measure. With a fierce oath he sprang up and confronted her. “Yer won’t be said,-then?” he cried. “I’ve told yer wot I’d do if yen kept on wi’ this croakin’, an’ I'll do it.” As he uttered this brutal threat he clenched his great fist and raised it for a blow. Instinctively she pat up her hand, and her eyes met his appealingly. “Bill, don’t!” she said. Her imploration was answered with a curse, and the next- moment his heavy hand caught her on the side of the head, knocking her into the ditch. As site lay there, to all intents and purposes as one dead, an expression of misgiving crossed his brutal face. He was afraid he had “ done for her.” and as he was about p ascertain t he truth his quick ear caught the sound of a light footstep, and glancing down the lane he perceived a figure in white coming towards him. Tt was only' a woman -;i girl, rather —but in his present state a child would have scared him. and yielding to the- impulse of selfpreservation he turned and lied. Between the girl who was coming down j the lane and the one who lay in the ditch j there stretched the widest of social gulfs. The newcomer was the perfect flower- a delicate rose that had been carefully tended , and brought In perfection under the most 1 favorable conditions. Nature had moulded her with special care. Each feature was delicately chiselled. each limb softly rounded. She was an aristocrat —one in : whose veins ran the blue blood that comes from a long line of ancestors. A good judge of character, looking at her fine features, would have said Hint these ancestors had been piond and haughty, and that she had inherited her full share of their characteristics. With ibis reading, probably, most people would have agreed. As a matter of fact, the girl lur-cli seemed lo accentuate these qualities ralhtr than conceal them. The swropiiur lashes that shaded the dark eyes di<l no! hide the proud expression that lay 1 in 1 Ik ir depths. Her lips, also, had that 1 perceptible curl which denotes arrogance of --pint and a will that is stubborn. Her skin »;k smooth and white, her cheeks touched wiidi a faint pink, while her lips i were of a biilbani red. She was dressed in w!iiir. h-r gown simply made yet, , ncvr-ri hrier-s. the work of an artist—while ; her fact- was shaded by a wide-brimmed ( straw hat. j In one respect alone did she resemble : the girl who was lying in the ditch: (he expression on her fair face denoted a mind | that was not free from trouble. Bhe was not the kind of girl, however, who was likelv to give way 10 such trouble. She j would have considered it a weakness to do | so. -Thu most superficial observer would have adjudged her to be one whose will j would be hard to break ; one who. when mated wrongly, would entrench herself behind her pride and prove stubborn and untractable. Such women are only to be won through the affections; coercion only hardens their spirit and renders then unbendable. She strolled on in a listless fashion, which may have been the result of the intense beat, or of an absolute indifference to her daily life, until she neared the spot where the' unfortunate woman lay unconscious. The colored shawl which the tramp's wife wore catching her eye, she started slightly, and as she looked into tho ditch and saw tho white, upturned face with tie blood trickling from a wound on the brow, her indifference gave place to horror and compassion, and dropping her parasol she hastened to the unhappy gii££'assistance. As she stoop'-d, the unconscious woman opened her eyes and looked round in that stupefied kind' of way common to those who have just regained their senses. “ You are hotter?" the girl said in a voice of great sweetness. “ Do you think you can got up? Give tno your hand.” The unfortunate girl obeyed without a word. She was too bewildered to speak. This beautiful creature, the very essence of all that is refined and cultured, dazzled her, and made her wonder if she had really regained her senses on earth, or if she had been transported to another sphere. With assistance she was able to stand, and the Good Samaritan led her to the ! stone from which she hud heen so roughly j ejected, and bade her sit down. J “ Do you feci better?” she asked. | “ Yes. miss, thank yon. I shall he rigid | enough in a minute or two.” | The- girl did not answer; she was looking 1 at the” ugly cut on her miserable companion’s brow' in a thoughtful mamner, and finally she pulled mil her handkerchief, evidently with the munition of turning it into a bandage. She hj d forgotten its dimiuutiveness, however, and as she looked at it, J no bigger than a -beet of notepaper, ;>rd j nothin'' hut a network of delicate lace, she | realised its u.st-les;u t.-> for her purpose. .She !

I was not to be easily nonplussed, as her next action showed, for, bending down, she seized the hem of her soft white gown, I and tore n. great strip from it. “I will tie this over your forehead,” jhe [said, ” You have cut-yourself badly.” I “ Oh miss, but your dress!” the girl cried 1 in dismay. “ You’ve spoilt it, and it was j so lovely." The other laughed carelessly, She would probably have mined a new gown climbing the hedgerow* after flowers or blackberries with equal indifference, so the sacrifice was not so great as the one who benefited from it: imagined. “ How did you manage to do it?” she asked, as she fastened the bandage deftly. The question brought a spot of color to l he woman’s cheeks, and Lor manner became embarrassed. The brute’s victim seldom likes to turn informer on him when he still retains her love. “I suppose your husband did it?” the Good Samarium said, noting the gold band on the girl’s linger. “11 vexed him,” the victim murmured. “It, isn’t often he hits me.” Her companion, who had now completed her work, and was standing before her patient, looked at her with a curious expression of wonder and contempt. “When my husband hits me I shall leave him for ever!” she said at length. The girl looked at her quickly. “Oh. but I'm sure, miss, he’d never think of such a thing,” she said earnestly, “ He couldn’t have the heart, and you such a beautiful lady. 1 m sure he must love you far too dearly.” "There you arc wrong,” her companion answered. " He doesn't love me, aud I don’t love him.” The other regarded her doubtfully. “But you’ve manned him,” she murmurred in a voice that implied that marriage and love are inseparable. “ And you think that people don’t marry unless they love?" I—l1 —I don’t know. It’s the proper thing to many for, isn’t it?” "For’such people us you, yes—but in my world it is different. We marry for a fine house—fine dresses and jewels—for carriages ami horses, and a train of servants.” “Did yon marry for those things, miss?” the girl asked in a doubtful tone. ” Yes.” “And your husband, he ” “ Oh, be look me because I was of good descent, and he was descended from a. weaver. I daresay you wonder why I tell you this, aud I don’t know myself. I suppose 1 am in a confidential mood to-day. Now, tell me something about yourself. It may interest me, ami if it doesn’t I’ll tell you to stop. I suppose you love your husband?’’ " Yes, miss.” “ Though ho does knock you down.” “ Well, I think I gave liim cause, but it was for his own good I spoke, I won’t deny but what he gives me a. lot of trouble at, present, miss. He’s unsettled. He won’t work, and I’ve not been used to this life. I We’ve not common tramps you see, miss. He—he got into trouble, and, was sent to prison for —for stealin’, and did six months; j and since then he’s not been the same.” j " 1 should have thought it would have taught him a l&sou,” tiie girl replied. j “ Ah, one would have thought so, but it hasn’t. He wants to go wrorg alto- j gather now, and 1 have a job to stop bim. That’s what be struck me for. We I might be so happy- if he’d do some honest I work.” I “ And he wants to do dishonest work, does he?” "Yes, miss-; that’s it.” “ Well, I think your best plan is to let him do it. I don't suppose it will last long. He’ll be caught again ami imprisoned for a, loi time, and then you’ll be rid of him.” j The girl did not seem to regard this as an event to be desired. | v “You don’t want to be rid of him?” her adviser said. “No, miss.” “And yet you would he better off without) him. Yon could get a pla-cc in service. I’ll give you a place myself if you like.” " Thank you, miss, it’s very kind of you, an’ I don’t want to appear ungrateful, but I can’t desert my Bill.” "Yet he deserted you.” “ Oh, I shall lird him -again. He’ll be at the first public.” “ Probably raging with drink, and just in the humor to strike you again.” “Nay, not unless I vex him.” “ Well, I think you’re very foolish. He’s sure to get into trouble, and lie may get you in with him.” “I must risk that. If T leave him ha’s sure to go to the bad, but as long as I slick to him there’s always a chance that 1 may pull him up." i Her companion dic’i rot answer, and the

girl, looking at her proud features, seemed lo read vexation on them. “ I daresay it seems strange of me,” she said, " but you would understand better what I feel if you loved your husband. If you loved him you’d be ready to do anything for him.” “ Perhaps I should,” the other murmured thoughtfully, “ but, you sec, I hate him. I hate him, and I do everything I can . to anger him. You may ho sure that if 1 could ser »1 him to prison I would do so.” The intensity of her passion, shown in tho flash of her dark eyes, in her heightened color, and in her heaving bosom, caused her companion to open her eyes in wonder that was akin, to pity. “He—he ill-uses you?” she murmured. The girl laughed scornfully. “ Ho would not, I daresay, if he dare,” site said’; "but ho daren’t. He is too much afraid of me to do that. I should like to see the man who could frighten me. Most people- stand in fear of my husband, but I do not know what fear is. Ho will acknowledge that I. am his master at the finish, and then, I suppose wo shall get along better. We shall never be what is called" happy, but I daresay our existence will not lie of quite such a cat-and-cjog nature as is usual with those who many as we have done.” “It is a pity you took him, miss,” the girl said, sorrowfully. “ I am sure there must be somebody somewhere who would I have made you happy, someone you’d have been happyfcio obey and to please, and who wovß have loved you as you deserve to be loved.” Again the other laughed, carelessly yet bitterly. “ I suppose there generally is a someone in thete cases.” she said. “ But there—tell me what you are going to do. Tell me your name.” “It is Darvell, miss—Alice Darvell.” “ And you are resolved to stick to your husband until the police take bim from you ?” "Yes, but I hope that may never be.” “Well, I hope so too; but if it should i happen, vou will want a home of some kind, and perhaps I might be able to give I you one. My name, is Morrison —Lady j .Kidith Morrison—autre! live at the big borne a little further down' the road. You’ll know it by the lodge gates." I “Yes, miss—that is to say, my lady; wo passed it this morning.” “ Very well, come there if ever yon want a place, and Til take you into my service.” [ The girl thanked her once more, and then rose. “ I must be looking after him,” she murI mured. " I don’t want him to get more than is good for him. Do—do you think | I might take ibis off now, miss—my lady?” touching the bandage. "I don’t want folk to ask me bow it’s been done, and Bill mightn’t like it.” I "I think you may. Let me do it lor you.” She untied the rag with skilful lingers, and was about to throw it away, whan Alice Darvell put out her hand. “I should like to keep that if I may, your ladyship,” she said. “It will be a remembrance of you, an’ I can easy have, it washed.” “As you wish, but you shall have something better to remember mo by than a piece of rag. See,” taking out her purse, " there is a sovereign. When you get lo Middleton go to a chemist’s and get the cut dressed. Now I must be going. Goodbye.” " Good-bye, your ladyship, and Heaven bless yon I” CHAPTER IL KUTUOSFBCT. The brief rimy of her life which Lady Morrison had related to Alice Darvell was m no way exaggerated, and it was a nut- I shcll-like version of a career which was as j full of dark trouble as a stormy sky is full : of clouds. That ruler of destinies which we | term Fate bad singled Edith Morrison ont : for a lot that was far from enviable. Mar- I tied to a man she neither loved nor re- , spec led, aud with whom she had nothing ; in common, it need occasion no wonder if tier heart slronld chafe against the prison | bars, as a bird chafes against the wires of j its rage. 1 A certain rar-rifice had been demanded ol tiiis beautiful girl, and she had made it , without a murmur or complaint ; to save the honor of her family she had renounced all unit life holds most precious, and hal given up the one in whose company the j best part of Iter character would have de- i velopcd, as rare blossom develops when ! planted in a suitable soil and properly nour- | ished. 1 It was a commonplace story, the story j of a proud man rubied by extravagance an I j seeking the aid of a wealthy cdtnmouer to sustain bis falling fortunes. ■Sir James Prendergast had brought an honored name to the verge of disgrace. His I

, family? was one whose lustre had been sustained,» not so much by great wealth and display ’of pomp as.by valiant deeds on many battlefields. ■ .For many generations the he|ids of the house had followed tho i pursuits of arms, and many of them bad spilt their blood in their. country's cause. A Prendergast had fought under the banner of thp Black Prince, another had led a charge ut Waterloo, and another had slept in the cemetery in the Crimea. The last member of tho family alone had written nothing on the scroll of fame that had been bought with so much blood. >Sir James, unlike his ancestors, had developed a weakness of constitution that was surprising i i ! a race noted for its hardihood, and this ; nI finnity had prevented him embracing he calling which his predecessors luul uniformly adopted. The disappointment was a keen one. If he lacked the strength which distinguished his forbears, their restless, ardent spirit burnt within his breast, and, as is frequently the case, checked of a natural outlet, flowed into a channel that led to disaster. The martial spirit craves for excitement, and in times of peace this is satisfied m manly* sports and exercises. These innocent fdhus cf recreation were debarred the invalid, and he sought recompense on the iU’l and at the gaming table. The result, of course, was a foregone conclusion. At tic best of times the Thurlow Manor estate wak not one that* when the prestige of the family was taken into account, could staniftlie drain that its owner’s pleasures demanded, and, with land steadily depreciating and tenants demanding large abatements, it had soon become evident that the berdep was greater than the heritage could bear. As a matter of fact, by the time bis only child had reached womanhood the baronet found himself so beset by creditors that ha was glad to seek help from one he despised, ’lo friends ol Ids own class he was proud to appeal for assistance, but there was one man who, in spite of many .rebuffs and numerous slights, had wormed himself into the baronet’s acquaintance, and who had eventually gained, a certain footing at the Manor. This man was Richard Morrison, the owner of large mills in che neighboring town of Middleton. Morrison was a self-made man, and he had all those social aspirations common «> 1 those of his class. Like dozens besides him he had started life in a very humble cap.v j city in the town in which he was now vhe chief employer, and which had benefited I largely by his enterprise and industry. Respectable parents of the middle and lower classes retold his career u> their offspring as an example of what prudence and hard work could effect, until some of these youths, who preferred the playground to the schoolroom, grew to hate the cotton spinner’s ’lame. Nevertheless, it was a story that was bound to benefit the young. Morrison s career had been one of rigorous toil and. never-flinching determination. Starting life os an errand boy in the very factory he now owned, he had fought his way up step by step, pushing die weaker out of his way, always sparred on by the knowledge that wealth is power. And wealth he had got. He was a millionaire. Those great, grin"/ mills, humming ceaselessly day by day, filled with their crowd of pallid-faced worker*, poured the gold into his coffers at a rate that was astonishing. Oca ambition satisfied, however, another usually arises. So it was in this case. Money had given him power, but it could not give him that prestige which results from a long ancestral line, and that prestige he earnestly desired. He was not in any way a man of sentiment. His mind and his time bad been given up to the accumulation of money, aud the lighter fancies of love and marriage nail found no place in his heart. He had arrived at middle age, indeed, before he turned his attention to matrimony, and then his choice was based on reasons tnat were purely ambitions. At the outset ha bad made a legitimate attempt to win the affections of Sir James’s daughter, and he had foiled. His methods, ol course, were naturally blunt and unit nth. A man cannot become a polished £<./inTit without practice, ami most women, even those wuo regarded the cotton spinner ! l-urely from a worldly point of view, would 1 nave resented his business-like way of woo- I iog Edith Prendergast had treated him j unh contempt tliat would have been quite | sufficient for most men. -Morrison, how- j e'er, was a difficult person to shake off. I H:s riches had only been gained by a bull- I r.K g-like tenacity of purpose, which <s i usually found in tho successful money- I maker. And on this quality ho relied to j bring Ids suit, to a successful termination. I He became tho baronet’s Banker—advancing 1 hi go sums to relieve the difficulties imo | which Sir James had plunged himself. | Not until driven to the last inch of firm I ground, and when all other avenues of escapo were closed, did the owner of Thurlow Manor enter the web that was spread

for him. Once in it, however, he became more firmly immeshed day by day, and when the hour of reckoning finally came he looked at the array of figures, the neatly tabulated list of loans' with the accumulated interest, with consternation and dismay. It was impossible, of course, that those loans could ever be redeemed. What was to be done? In answer, Richard Aforrison, propounded hie plan. He wanted a wife. Let his debtor give him his daughter’s hand in marriage, and the estate should be cleared and its owner placed upon a solid 1 financed ba-sis.

Sir James listened to this proposal, which I was made in that incisive, lucid fashion in which Morrison made an offer for so many bales of cotton in business circles, in silence, and his manner showed that it caused him a good deal of perturbation. Morrison had mentioned that Edith bad already refused him, and this fact made the father unwilling to use his influence in the matter. He loved Ins daughter very dearly, and he had hoped to see her wed with one whose name stood as high as her own—one who would at the same time strengthen the tottering pillars that supported the house. His position, therefore, was not an enviable one. He might feel a strong repugnance to bartering his child in a fashion that was sordid and mercenary; it was natural that he should do so, for though crushed by the weight of his own folly, he still retained those high-bred and lofty ideals which had always distinguished hr ancestors. This man who sought an alii anco with his house possessed none of those attributes for which the Prendergasts wen. noted. He lacked birth and breeding; and such distinction as he had gained could bring no honor to a family whose members bad never engaged in trade. All these undesirable qualities rose before the Baronet as he listened to the proposal He realised that such a marriage would lower the family in the eyes of their equals. No house had avoided a mesalliance so carefully as the Prendergasts. Their marriages had always been with those on the same level as themselves, or with those on a higher plane still. This would be a descent —and a very serious one. And yet it could not be avoided. Ruin on one hand, the admittance of this parvenu on the other. What could he do? He was in this man’s power. He must do his bidding. Morrison, unlike many men in bis position, adopted no hectoring or authoritative tones. He spoke with quiet confidence, certain that he would gain his end, and as if he never questioned the posai bility of refusal. And in this he was right. Much though it went against the grain. Sir James promised compliance with his wishes. The matter was duly laid before his daughter. He did not ask her directly to buy his honor, but she saw that unless she did so the refusal would probably Sill him. She was as sensitive to the disgrace that rtrin would bring as himself, and when she saw that it lay with her to avert such a disaster she decided almost at once. Yet it was a hard task, harder than the weald knew, for it was demanded at a time when romance bad colored her young life with its golden tint, and it is a struggle to turn away when the gates of Paradise invito one to enter. But she had done so. She had conquered all the natural feelings which exist in all true women; she had caused the man she loved to tfelieve that she set riches beyond love, and she had transformed him into one of those who appraise her sex lightly. It was very hard, but it had to be. Her interview with her buyer was conducted on lines that surprised Morrison considerably. He had expected tears and impioratkms—appeals to his mercy; and against such weapons he had steeled his heart. She met him, however,, in a busi-ness-like spirit that gained bis secret admiration, and which also rendered him a little uneasy regarding their future. She was plain to the point of bluntness. All emotion was as carefully concealed as though she acquiesced iu the matter of her own free will and accord. Her voice was without a tremor, her face as composed as though she Lad been discussing a matter of trifling importance. She laid particular stress on the fact that she bad already loved. Who her lover was he had no idea. She spoke, of the lack of that natural affection which is usually supposed to bind man and wife together. She intimated that he might come to regret the bargain he was making, whereat he smiled grimly, replying that it wits seldom he regretted any of his actions. She told him that she bad never liked him, and that now dislike had grown into hate. Those words produced a dull red flush in his sallow cheeks, but his teeth met determinedly. She said more than this; in her presence he bad once let fall some words respecting his power of bending those he came in contact with to his will, and how he owed his position to a 'great extent to that power. | She recalled these words now, and said that

he need never hope to bend her in that way. To this he had merely smiled. He felt, doubtless, that he could afford to am3e. In his own heart he was convinced that when she became bis wife he would very soon bring her proud spirit into subjection. He felt, too,v,that it was work in which he should take a pleasure- —a test of those powers on which he prided himself not a little. The compact was duly sealed at the village church in which the Prendergasts had worshipped for generations, and in the graveyard of which their bones lay brined. It was, of course, a great affair, with all (he characteristic feast-giving, display of bunting, and a stoppage of the great mills, whose toilers, white-faced and unhealthy, came to eat and drink at th'eir master’s expense, and to cheer his beautiful bride. One and all considered she would be hard to match for beauty, hut the younger women wondered at her stone-like calm during the ceremony, which, their elders declared, was unnatural. j It was a ceremony that was long rememi bered by those present, for grim tragedy I came to "the feast and threw a gloom over it. I During the signing of the names in the , vestry the bride’s father was seized with a ■ sudden attack of illness, falling down unI conscious. Ho was carried home; doctors semt for, but when they saw him they shook their heads. He was beyond all earthly lid, and in the early hours of the morning ho end came. A lew minutes before then he regained Ids senses, and as he opened his eves thev encountered his daughter, who had never left his side, and who was kneeling by the bed, still attired in her bridal robes. “My child! too late! too lute!” Only those.words did he utter; then he died, and she bowed her head and shed the first tears for many a long day. Fate had treated her badly. The one for whom she hud made the greatest sacrifice of which she was capable had died within twenty-four hours after that sacrifice was made, and with him the family name became extinct, and the ancestral home and lands passed into the hands of a commoner. Nearly twelve months had gone by since the eventful day when Edith Prendergast bad become bound in the bonds of slavery. Towards the close of a warm and beautiful afternoon a smart carriage, drawn by a pair of well-matched cobs, and driven by a coachman in livery, turned through the lodge gates of Thurlow' Manor, and wont v.p the slightly rising avenue ah a brisk trot. The carriage contained one person, a man— Richard Morrison, the Master of the Manor, and one of the richest merchants of his time. He was a big man, this north country cotton spinner, heavily built, to the verge of clumsiness. There are some men who carry their size easily; but to this number Richard Morrison did not belong. His face was sallow, and lighted by a pair of unsympathetic grey eyea—unpleasant eyes, with a hard, cold glitter in their steely depths that ofiered little evidence of good j humor or feeling. The lips, too, were ■ thin, and tightly compressed, the corners j marked by a certain saturnine expression. Ho had dark hair, in which the groy streaks were just showing, and his face was clean shaven, save for a narrow strip of whisker that ran down each side of bis gaunt cheeks. He was dressed with excessive care, in grey striped trousers, a well-fitting frock coat, Mack tie, spotless linen, and very shiny boots. It was his desire to stand well in the eves of his fellow-men, and he knew that dress played an important part in this matter. Ho neglected nothing that could help to gain him the respect of his fellows, and he was looked upon as an exemplary mc-moei j of society: an upright man. Ml of in- I tegrity. Hard in his business dealings no doubt he was, but he had a way of deceiving people as to his real nature, so that even those who were worsted by him, and who, perhaps, were defrauded by sharp dealing, felt themselves less .aggrieved than might have been expected. When a man packs your pocket in the street you are iKiturally angry, but he. may do so in another way and yon will even-call him your friend. Although Richard Morrison was an accomplished practitioner in this respect, bo fought a continual battle with the violent passions which really underlay Ids suave manner. Occasionally those passions burst the bonds that were put upon them, for j the man who can always hide the characteristics which he derives with his mother’s milk is not yet born, Morrison, in spits of his attempts at geniality, was not a pleasant man at any time, and when he was | tried beyond a certain point he was, to put ! it mildly, distinctly disagreeable. { The carriage had now romided the bend i that brought one in front of the house, and : a minute later it drew to a standstill before 1 the groat colonnaded entrance.

A lover of those picturesque old fanfly mansions, ivy-covered, irregular in build, and ornamented with numerous towers and turrets, would have found nothing to bis taste in Thurlow Manor. It appealed rather to those who admire the grim and substantial in architecture than to those whose fancy is caught by the pwttines# of a later period. Built at a time when an Edglirinaan’s house was his castle in every sense of the te"m, when walls and doors must be ftout enough to resist the attacks of marauders, its constructor had paid little heed to outward decoration. The material used was a dark-tinted stone obtained from the quarries that made yellow gashes in the brown bilk that formed a background, and the design was almost a square. Standing on. rising ground it stood out, bold and conspicuous, as it had stood for hundreds of years. Its days of danger were over now, however. The possibility of its doors and windows being ever barricaded against the besieger was so remote as to be considered improbable. It had entered on a sphere of peace which might well last until the end of all time. Of J&te years its owners had done a great deal towards rendering it a little leas grim, and this had been done, not by touching the house itself, which would have been akin to sacrilege, but by reclaiming the surroundings from their original condition of wildness. A terrace had been constructed beneath the front windows, which, with its well-kept grass slopes and bright flowm, relieved the dark stonework as an edging of some gaily-colored fringe relieves a sombre gown. The moat also, which in many cases is nothing more than a dirty ditch, bad long ago been filled in, and now a smooth lawn stretched where it bad formerly run. This kwn sloped away until it reached the iron rails that divided the grounds from the, park—a well-timbered region, in whose leafy glades the deer grazed and the game lived, unmindful of the time when the destroyer would turn their Eden into a. holocaust. There was something incongruous between Richard Morrison and this old mansion, an incongruity that putting an ancient master beside the work of a modern artist. Morrison was not In harmony with his surroundings. He felt this at; times himself, f How could he be expected to take bn interest in the family heirlooms with which the house was filled? How could lie he expected to thrill with pride when the sword with which a certain Prendergast had won fame was drawn from its scabbard? They were not his ancestors, and sometimes, when he looked upon them in their heavy frames, lie resented the rammer in which they regarded him. He imagined that they knew he was an outsider, an intruder wiio had entered their home by illegitimate means, and that lie was the object of their scorn. Tit is self-consciousness, which was surprising in one of his class, extended still In: tier. The servants, of course, who were ail servitors of many years’ standing, and whoso parent? and grandparents had served the family before them, had naturally absorbed some of the principles of the race v.iih which they had become inseparable. The consequence was that they regarded Morrison with distinct disapproval. They understood that he had entered the family under conditions that were scarcely likely lo meet with ihe approval of those who had still a proper appreciation,of true marriage, and their attitude towards him was as frigid as that of a maiden towards an unwelcome suitor. Ho would have dearly liked to discharge the lot of them; but he knew that sracu an act would do him no good with the people in bis wife’s station of life, the people with whom he desired lo stand well Moreover, he was not unmindful of the fact that a rdinue of well-trained servants, who nave become as proud of the family they serve ,ks the family itself, adds considerably to it# prestige of their employer. (To be continued.)