OUT OF DARKNESS: OR The Priory Mystery.

King Country Chronicle, Volume III, Issue 109, 23 November 1908, Page 2

OUT OF DARKNESS: OR The Priory Mystery.

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# By HEDLEY RICHARDS. Author of "A Day of Reckoning," "From the Mill to the Mansion," Etc., Etc. TART 1. CHARTER T. THE WISDOM OF A CUTER. A poverty-stricken , room, rickety table and chairs, broken crockery, bare boards, penury visible in cvery (lcta.il, yet the late afternoon sun shone as brightly through the small garret window as into the mansions of the rich and great. Seated on the floor, playing with a battered old doll that was minus anus, legs, and one eye, was a child of five —not a merry, romping child, but serious of face, with great grey eyes that were fixed lovingly on the doll as she straightened the old, tattered frock, then hugged it to Iter. "Ursula!" The voice was that of an old man—a weak, faint voice, but it roused the child, and getting, up, she laid the doll gently on one of the chairs and went to the bedside. A man—he might not have been above sixty, but if so the years had served him hardly—lay on the bed, and to an experienced eye it would have been evident that his days were numbered ; but the child saw nothing of this. Richard was ill, that she knew, but the doctor, who came Aery morning, would make him bettor. "Ursula, get on the bed and sit close to me. I want to talk to vou." he .said, in'a'laint tbno... The child obeyed, and the little dimpled'hand lay on the hard, horny one. After a moment he said : "I want yOu to say that'little lesson T • taught you about your name." llcr i'a< c*! r'ghtencd. She was glad to do an; thing that she thought wou'd please him, and she spoke in a clear treble : ,''.'. "My name is Ursula Calthorp, daughter of the late .John Ewar.t Calthorp, and Monica, his wife, daughter of Marcus, Lord Gaiesworthy. I'm five years old. I was brought' 'up by Ann and Richard Brown." "That's right, little one. Remember that always. Is the locket safe '?" "Yes, Richard ;" and the child drew from the inside of her shabby little frock a thick gold chain, from which a massive old-fashioned locket hung. " Put it back. None of the folk here must see that ;" then he paused, but after a moment he said : "I'rsula. I'm going away." She nodded. "Have wc far to go ?" "I'm going alone ; it's a journey you cannot take with me. God sent for me." A sad look dawned in the child's "He's got Ann, and He wants you ?"■■■ • ■;. "I don't know as He wants me. I'm a poor sort of chap to make an angel out of, but my time's come." She nestled closer to him. "Don't you think, Richard, if I asked Him He'd let mc go with you ?" "No ; your time hasn't come. Rleaso God you'll live to be rich and great, to get back to the place your mother lost. Now, listen Ursula. I've told you the people in this house are xvicked. and when I'm gone you must get away as quickly as possible, or they'll make you stay with them, and do all sorts of wicked things." A grave look came into the childish face as* she said "I heaVd Nanny Jones tell a woman that when the old man had gone she was going to take me and send me out begging. ."I was going to tell you." "Please God she won't. Oh, if youi* mother's people.. <- would " only, have answered my letter!" Then he s(c«i i>ed, exhausted; but afte- a minute he continued, and there was energy in his-voice: "Child, when I have gone yoii must leave here at once. Don't tell any one I am dead, but slip out, and make your way to where there ore. good shops and houses and decent folks ; then tell the first wouun or man who looks good that you are without a home, arid they'll help you ; there's homes for the orphan. Promise me, child, that you will flee from this place : it's hell." "Yes, Richard ; but how shall J know when you've gone ?" 'T shall be cold and still, like Ann was. Don't call any one, but slip away before they know." She did not answer. Evidently she was busy thinking. At last she said : "Will they put you in the ground, like they did Ann ?" "They'll put the husk there ; but 1 shall have gone, and Ann and I will bo guarding you—your father and mother as well as we two."' "That's nice. I shan't feel lonely. But don't go just yet, Richard ;" and she patted his hand tenderly. " I cannot slay when the call comes, and I think I shall hear it Then, remember, child, that you go at once. This place is hell, and you must flee from it." "ill go. See, Richard, the sun's shining. f don't think you'll feel cold on your journey ;" and she pointed to the. little window in the roof. The dying man glanced that way, then he looked long and earnestly at the child. ■•Children read faces better than wo do, and Cod will guide her to toll her tale to 1 he right person." Iv thought. Then aloud ho said : ■l'm tired, child, and I think you'd better go back to your play." I'rsula did as she was told. and played with her doll until the sun waned ; then she took a crust of bread out of the cupboard and drank a cup of milk that stood there, after which she removed her clothes and put on her warm flannel nightgown, and crept into the small bed in the corner. For hours the child slept soundly, then she started, thinking she heard

Richard call her, and as she lay, half awake, half asleep, again she seemed to hear his voice calling, "Ursula ! Ursula ! " She sat up in bed and looked round. The voice had seemed so near that she expected to see him standing by her bed. Hut there was no one, and the room was very still. "Did you call me, Richard '?" she asked, in her grave, quiet little voice. But there was no answer, so getting out of her bed, she. stole across the room to see if he was awake. The summer day had -dawfJO'd, %$&- vcaling the face on the pillow —the face that looked so white and still. "Richard, you called!" she said, half fearfully, the old- man lay so •itill and motionless. Tin re was no answer, and timidly she reached out her little hand to tomh him. then drew it quickly back, he was so cold. She shivered, then leaned forward and again touched the old man's hand. "Oh, Richard, I wish I'd gone with von," she said, with a sob. Then ihc remembered that he had told Her she must go before the people Were about, so going to the chair's on which her clothes lay, she dressed Ivi'tclf quickly, putting on her little bonnet and coat. Stepping to the bedside, she said : "Good-bye,- Richard ; I'm going !" And opening the door, .she went softly down the rickety staircase, scarcely daring to tread as she passed the doors of the rooms whore the other tenants of the ramshackle old house lived. At last she reached the foot of the stairs. There before her was the big door that led into the court, and it was fastened by a heavy bolt. Ursula knelt down, and with her two little hands tried to draw it ba'-k, but at first she was unsuccessful. :. She tugged at it, and the bait shot back. The child jumped up and lifted the -latch, "as she glanced anxiously at a door in the corner where Nanny Jones lived. Then she stopped out into the court, that was so crowded with houses. Shutting the door after her, Ursula ran into the alley beyond, and ,'rora there into'a narrow street'filled with houses in which the poor, the outcast, and thieves herded. She had been in.this street in the daytime, and knew that a little further on a passage led iuto a wider street where there were a few shops, so she turned her steps in that direction, and was soon in the street.. Then ■die hesitated, not knowing which way to go. Just then a clock struck four, and unconsciously she turned in the direction of the sound; but she had to traverse a couple of streets before she came to an old, square-built brick church. The street in which it stood was wider, and the houses seemed more respectable, nut as she lingered she fancied she hoard" old Richard say, "Go on." "Of course, he and Ann were lookng after her," she remembered ; and the little feet in the worm shoes hastened on, first down one street, then another, until the slums were left behind, and as the clock struck six she stood in front of a church that abutted on the street. There was a deep porch that looked very inviting to the weary child, and stepping into it, she sank on the floor and was soon sound asleep. An hour and a-half later she opened her eyes and looked around her, thinking she was in the little garret, that for some months had been her home, then she remembered all, and as she stood up and looked out of the porch she became conscious that she was hungry, and her eyes settled on a shop across 'the road. It was a !busy street, but the day was. too young for much traffic ; so rossing the street in safety, she tood looking iiv the shop window, while she felt the coppers in her pocket—six of them. Richard had given her them the other night, and, proud in their possession, she entered the shop, and marched up to the counter, where she stood looking with her big, grey eyes at the woman behind it. "Please, I want some bread. I'm hungry, and I can pay for. it," she said, gravely. "Bless your heart, my dear," said the woman, as she handed the child a tea-cake with currants in it. "Now I wonder if you could drink some milk?" she added,-; arid going into the house, she returned with a ml, g of milk. "How is It you're out alone so early?" asked the woman, as the child took the milk. "I've nobody, to'conic with me. Richard and Ann are dead." At-that moment a couple of customers came into the shop, and beore they were served, Ursula had drunk her milk and eaten her bun. "Please, I want to pay you," she said, taking the coppers out of her pocket. The woman smiled. "1 don't want any pay ;" and she looked kindly after the child as she left the shop. Walking on, I'rsula found the streets were busier ; the work-a-day world had begun, and she. went more leisurely, looking up at the faces of the people she met. Richard had told her that when the people seemed docont she was to tell her tali; to the first woman or man who looked good. On e after another passed her, but they all seemed in a hurry, as though they would not have time to listen to her, and very few of them looked kind. Disappointed, and wondering how much further she woidd have to go, she did not take heed to her steps, and ran full against a man. "Well. I never ! Have T hurt you, little lass?" asked the stranger, bending to look at the child. She raised her eyes and looked at him. then her face brightened as she said : "Vou hurt me a bit, but Urn glad sou did. because you're the man." "The man !" and he looked puzzled : then taking her by the hand, he drew her within a doorway that led to a free library. "Vos, Richard said I should see a /nan who looked good, and he'd fake me to a home for little girls whoso fathers and mothers have none up there;' and she pointed to the' sky. The man's good-natured face grew grave. "Have your father and mother gone there." he asked. "Yes ; and Ann, and now Richard" "Who was Richard?" asked the stranger. "The man who took care of me.'' The big burly man looked troubled "Are you all alone, child ?"•

She nodded. "But, of course, four angels have come with me all the way. Still, I'm a bit tired." "Poor little mite ! Where do you come from ?" he asked, in a gentle tone. "Prom hell," she said, fixing her large, innocent eyes on him. CHAPTEIJ|II. THE NOOHffIKiRM'. "From hell !" ho yjJf-' aU ' (l < looking at the child in amaffl&ient. "Yes ; it's a \vick<f»plnce. P'r'aps vou've never been tlW'e ?" said the child, in a questioning tone. "Thank the Ford ilfavon't. though once or twice I've been pretty near.' "Don't, go ; you wouldn't like it. I'd Richard and .Taney." she said, lifting her doll so that he could sett the 'nattered face." "God bless the child !" Ursula's face brightened. "That was what Richard said. I knew- you were good :" and she looked up at him with the utmost confidence. He met her gaze with his. in which there was inquiry. , "Where did Richard want you to go?" he asked, after a moment's roI'c .tion. "To a house for little orphans. That's what they call you when you've no father or mother," she replied. "Well, I think I cjmi do better than that. I'll take you to my own home, and my wife will mother you. Would you like to come with me, little lass ?" "Yes ;" and she laid her wee hand in his. "All right ; we'll have a cab. I was going to walk to the station, but it's too far for you, and as I've this to carry." he said, looking town at a travelling bag ho was holding in his hand, "it would be awkward getting you across the street." As he spoke he led her from the iloorway on to the pavement, now crowded \\ ith people, and as a cab approached he put up his hand to stop it, and in another minute the •:hild and he were driving through the streets. The strange sights engrossed her attention, and she did not speak, while he was equally silent, wondering what his wife would have to say when she saw the child. He had acted on impulse, but ho did not regret it, and as he glanced at the grave little face a feeling of tenderness sprang up. 'When they reached the station he lifted her out of the cab, and after paying the man he took her by one hand and carrying his bag in the other they went down the platform to where the train was waiting to start. Lifting her into an empty thirdclass carriage, he sprang in after her, and in a few minutes the train started. "This is a very funny carriage," she remarked. "Lord bless me, did you never sec a train before ?" he exclaimed. "No. You see, I'm not very old, but Richard told me all about them." "I don't think you are very old. What's your name, little one ?" "Ursula Calthorp, daughter of the late John Ewart Calthorp, and Monica, his wife, daughter of Marcus Galesworthy. I'm five years old. I was brought up by Aan and Richard Brown. There, now I've told you proper, alid you can help me to remember. Richard says 1 must never forget," said the child, unconscious that she had altered the sentence, making her grandfather's name appear as Marcus Galesworthy, omitting the title. "Very good, little one ; we'll write it down to-morrow." "Where do you live ?" she asked. "In the country, on the edge of Dartmoor. I've a farm there ; my father had it before me. There are hens and ducks and all sorts of animals." "Have you any little girls ?" His face became grave. "No ; we had a little girl, but she's in heaven." "Oh, it 'pears to me that God wants a lot of people up there. 1 wonder if He knows it makes us ache hero when wo cannot set them ?" and she touched her chest. "I guess He does, and somehow it's for the best." "Oh!" and Ursula's tone was doubtful. Then she looked np at him. "1 don't know your name," she said. "That's easily told. I'm Reuben Johnson, of the Nook Farm, Dartmoor, as my people have been foi generations ;*' then as the train stoppod in a station he beckoned to a porter and asked him to get some sandwiches. "Now, you must get a good meal; it'll be tea-time when we get home." I'rsula was hungey, and she ate heartily ; then very soon she became drowsy, and her little head fell against his arm. "Bless the child!" he muttered as ho drew her to him, placing her in a mote comfortable position. She did not awake until they reached the station at which they got out, and it was a half-sleepy little girl that he led to a sort of dog-cart that stood waiting outside A wiry-looking man of fifty hob: the reins, and regarded the child with curiosity. "Silas, you'll have to sit at the back and hold the little lass on," said Mr. Johnson. (To be Continued).