OUT OF DARKNESS; OR The Priory Mystery.

King Country Chronicle, Volume III, Issue 110, 26 November 1908, Page 4

OUT OF DARKNESS; OR The Priory Mystery.

(All Rights Reserved.)

By HEDLEY RICHARDS, Author of ;'A Pay of Reckoning," "From the Mill to the Mansion," Etc., Etc. PART 2. "Ay, ay !" And getting down he lifted Ursula, to the back scat, and climbed up beside her. Then his master took the driver's place, and they were soon spinning through the lanes, the child looking with wide-open eyes at this new world to which she. had come. After driving for three-quarters ol an hour they turned into a farmyard, anil Siias lifted her down. "Now, little lass," said Reuben .Johnson, taking her by the hand and leading her towards a door. Just as they reached it, a buxom woman, dressed in black, met them. "Yes, I've got back safely, Salome, and I've brought some one with me," he said, as they stepped into tho passage. "Salome, I've brought this little lass to live with us. Maybe she'll comfort you for the loss of little Mary," said Reuben, as he led the child forward.. She moved forward and entered a comfortable living-room, where the table was spread for a substantial tea. A host of conflicting emotions shook the. woman as she bent to look at the child, then something in the little face roused her womanly tenderness, and stretching out her arms she lifted Ursula on her knee. "Where does she come from ?" she asked, looking at her husband. "!',.,,„, hell !" said the child in her clear, sweet voice. Salome .Johnson's face was a study. "Never mind, lass ; we'll have tea, and I'll t«'il you all about her afterwards,", said Reuben. A couple of hours later, when Ursula had be n bathed and out to bed in one of little Mary's nightdresses, Mis. .Johnson joined her husband in the sitting-room. "Xow tell me all," she said, and he told her about his meeting with Ursula. Salome listened -attentively, and when he ceased speaking, she said : "I'm giad you brought her home. She's a sweet child, and I'm sure she oolongs to gentle folks. She wears a curious old locket with a coat-of-nrms on it. but I cannot open it. There might be something on it that would givo us a due to her people, lint I'm not sorry we don't know any more about her, as I'd :ike to keei> the child. I think we'd better adopt her, and let her be known as Ursula Johnson. The next day, when Ursula was told she was to be their little girl and be called Johnson, they found she had to be reckoned with. She was delighted to be their little girl, but she stuck to it that her name was Ursula Calthorp, so it was finally settled that she should be Known bv that name. i> ' * * * » * About the time that Ursula made ;hc acquaintance of Reuben Johnson, the doctor entered the tenement liou.'C, and ascended the rickety stairs that led to Richard Brown's room. Rapping at the door, he waited a moment, then lifted the latch and Watered the room. It was flooded with sunshine, and his first glance showed him that the child was absent. Then he went quickly to the bedside, saying : "Well. Brown, how arc" But lie stopped abruptly- as his eye rested on the face of the old man. "Bead !" I thought he'd have lasted until today," he muttered. Then he made a brief examination, after which he descended the staircase, having shut the door of the death-chamber. At the bottom of the staircase he saw two women. "How's the old man to-day ?" asked Nanny Jones. "He's dead- I v.-as coming to ask if >ou woti'd- attend to him." "Gone ! I winder the child didn't tell me." she said.. "The little" girl is not in the room. The old man has died in the night. 1 thought lie would have lived until 10-day, or ' should have asked you to see she wasn't left alone at the last." replied the doctor, as he opened the outer door. "K wouldn't have made no differ.•nce if vou had. The old man would never have let us set foot in the room while he lived. He'd have made the child slip the bolt. Hut I'll go up now," she said, as he left tho house. , "Didn't you say, Nanny, as you found the door unfastened this morning '?" asked the other woman. "Yes. Now, I wonder if the child's slipped out? I know she didn't like me," said Nanny. "Where could she go ? No ; it's been opened for the spirit to pass out," said the other woman. Nanny laughed, a coarse, boisterous laugh. "Spirits can go through doors ;" and with these words she mounted the staircase, and soon reached the garret. ' Entering, she looked quickly round, and saw that tho child was really mi.'sing, then she slipped the bolt. "I may as well see if there's anything worth taking. The corpse can wait," she muttered, as she looked round the room, and her eye rested on a trunk that looked old and worn. It was fastened with a lad'ock, and in the dead man's trouscis pocket she found the Ivy. Opening the trunk, she discovered that it contained a few garments that had evidently belonged to a woman. They were old and worn, but had been decently mend.'(l. Xannv threw them on to the floor, deciding they would be useful to her. then she turned her attention to a Ji'tle wooden box. ".Vow. what's in this, anyway'? It's !e n worth while locking it," she muttered; and she tried two i Our Lc.\s that were fastened to the one that had unlocked the trunk. Hut they were no use. "I'm not going to be beaten," she thought ; arid, taking up the poker, she smash-

Ed the lia of the box, anfl saw ChaX it contained papers. Some were letters, and there was an exercisebook more than half-filled. The writing was large, and the writer was evidently not accustomed to use the pen. Nanny glanced carelessly at it. then some words arrested her attention, and seating herself, she read the entire contents. Next she perused the letters, and as she laid the last one down she said : •T must find the child. She'll be worth a, fortune to me. Send her out begging ! Not if 1 know it. She's got to learn to love me. .If i find her I'll treat her as the apple of my eye." Then thrusting the papers back into the box, she wrapped it in a petticoat, and went downstairs to her -own room. The next day Richard Ilrown was buried by the parish, but Ursula was still missing. All Nanny's inquiries had proved fruitless. The child had disappeared, leaving no trace behind. "She'll be. wanted some day, then these papers will be a gold mine." thought Nanny, as she hid them in a safe place. CHARTER IIT. ANNIVERSARY DAY. "Fifteen years to-day," said Ursula, as she stood at her bedroom window, that looked over the back garden, where peas and beans were ■in blossom. It was a strange medley that garden. Flowers and vegetables mixed in a very casual fashion, looking as though the gardener had set out to plant vegetables, then changed his mind, and sown flower seeds, then returned to his original scheme. "Fifteen happy years," she repeated. " Ah, theie's Silas ! I must have a talk with him ;" and the girl ran lightly down the broad, easy staircase, through the kitchen, into the garden. "Silas, it's fifteen years to-day since I came here," she said, pausing in front of the grey-haired man, some■vhat bent;- but active, who was busy with the spade. "And the sun's shining, missie. it's shone every one of those fifteen hannivcrsaries," he said, in a satisfied tone. "Yes, but there were clouds last n : ; lit, and I was half afraid it would ' e wet to-day. Mother and father : ave gone down to the hayfield," sirs added. "Yes, the master's mighty proud of this crop of hay. It's the best lie's had for years." " Silas, I've been thinking about Richard, ajid where I lived. I wontier how people live in such places?" "Well, missie, they do live, but no one who'd seen .your sweet iittlc. face would ever have believed you'd come out of the slums ; but, of course, it weren't your natural element—no more than this is," he added, in a lower tone, as he rested on his spade and looked at the tall, graceful girl with her high-bred face. "I wonder who my own people were '?" she said, in a musing tone. "That's a question, missie, and one as no. one here can answer," he said, as ho turned over a spadeful of earth. "Sometimes I feel tempted to smash my locket and see if there's anything inside.'' "Don't. Y r ou'd be awful disappointed if you found nothing, and vou'd have destroyed what might help vou to find out your kinsfolk." "But, Silas, I might find something inside, and I should like to knpw who it belonged to." ''Missie, you'll knoyv in the Lord's good time." It seems to me He's kept an eye on you so far, and He'll not lose sight of you now." "But supposing it isn't good for mo to know. What then ?" "Then you'll have to bide yvithout knowing. Y r ou'd never make a gardener, missie, you yvant to see the :-rop at once. Now, I'm a bit of a philosopher as well as a gardener, and I've learned as things worth having arc worth waiting for." "How o?d are you, Silas ?" she asked, with a roguish look. "Sixty-five, missie, last Michaelmas." "Forty-five years older than me. Silas, I daresay- I shall be a philosopher when I'm your age. But Betsy says you syvear at times." "Betsy's a talker ; but a man's wife's mostly a thorn in the flesh. If tho Apostle Paul had been a married man it would have been easy to find "where-the thorn pricked;" and Silas dug with energy. "After all, I'm very happy just as I am: it's a joy in life," she said. "Ay, ay ;" and the spade was lifted with energy. Ursula laughed merrily as she turned her back on him and made her way on to the path, when she seated- herself in a. little summerhouse that yvas covered with honeysuckle and ivy. At that moment there was a sound like a great animal jumping the wall that divided the garden from tho moorland. Ursula darted out of tho summer house, and to her amazement saw a bare-headed man in the dress of a convict standing on the footpath a yard from her, and her face grew pale. "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. I only want to know the nearest way to Tremearne." Before she could reply Silas advanced. "A lifer!" he said, noticing the badge the convict wore. '•Yes ; but I'm innocent. Will you help me to escape'.' I've got away from that hell, and I'd sooner die than go back." "What's your name ?" asked Silas. "John I.'Estrange." "f remember; the jury found you guilty of the murder of your cousin, James Dewhirst. 1 read the case : you are an innocent man." At the word "murder" Ursula had shrunk back : but as Silas avowed his belief in the convict's innocence she stole a look at him, and saw the shadow of a smile on his lips. "Then help me : I've no time to waste. If you could lend me a coat to cover these clothes I should stand a better chance." " You've no chance of getting away : the lanes are alive with haymakers. I'll hide you where not all the police in the country can find you. Take off your boots and carry them. N'ow, missie. shut your eyes, and don't open them lor five minutes : then if the police question you it will be no lie to say you don't know where lie's gone." Ursula shut her eves, and put her lingers in her ears lest she should

hear their footsteps ; then she thought how strange that this man should say—as she had done years ago—that he'd come from hell. Presently she removed her hnnds and looked round. Neither Silas nor the convict was to be seen, and she could almost h-ni- fancied thaishe had been dreaming then she saw Silas coming towards her. "Now. missie, if the police come you must, say you were frightened, and put your hands over your eyes, and didn't see which way he. went." "Yes. but he is a murderer ;" and she shuddered. ".Missie. I'll take my oath he's an innocent man. I've what might be called a judicial mind, and 1 read all the murder cases and such like. You see, knowing they'll be. as you may say. distant neighbours if they're condemned. 1 weigh the evidence carefully. I did so in this hare case, and 1 know that Mr. 1/Estrange is an innocent man. and has no more right to wear that life badge and be called by a number than the master or I have." Her face brightened. "And he's safe?" she asked. "Safe as can be. But. missie, you'd better tell your father and mother, when they come in, as you saw a convict and had a fright, or it'll look queer if you tell the police first." "I'll tell them." she said, and went slowly- into the house. In the kitchen she paused to look at Betsy, yvho was popping cakes into the oven. "These be the. hanniversary cakes. I yvas mixing of them yvhen Sila-s came bouncing in. But, missie, dear, you look pale. It's not for delicate maids like you to have starts, so just drink this cup of milk," she said, handing it to Ursula. The girl took a drink, then she said, in a subdued tone : "Did you sec him, Betsy ?" "Look here, missie ; the least said soonest mended. I never see aught that it's good not to see, and 1 mostly looks away when Silas advises me. There was a man took in a fit when 1 was a lass, and he told mo to look t'other way, so I did ; but that yvas in courting days," said the woman. Siias says he's innocent. How can they condemn innocent men'?" asked Ursula, in a tone of awe. "This yvorld's a mighty queer place. But when Silas says a man's innocent you can take his word for it. He reads all them cases, and he's more sense than any judge or jury in the land. Not as I would let him know it. The man would be to conceited to live with." Then her tone changed. "There's them lassies coming With the milk. If they hadn't been down to the hayfield, and been throyvn late with the milking, Silas couldn't have got the man out of tho way as easy as he did," she said, as the clinking of pails announced the approach of the .two maids with the cans of milk. Ursula put down the empty cup and left the kitchen by one door as tho maids entered by the other, and went to the sitting-room, that looked over a trim garden with wellkept lawn and bright with flowers. As she stood at the window she saw that Silas was busy tying up some roses. Then the click of the gate made her look towards it, and she saw her foster-father and mother. Salome Johnson was stouter and more matronly than she had been fifteen years ago, and her face was more peaceful. The shade of sadness had left it. She looked a thoroughly happy woman. And Reuben, too, had the appearance of a jolly, prosperous fanner. "What shall 1. say to them," thought Ursula, as she went to meet them at the front door. "Fifteen years to-day was a lucky day for* us," said Mrs. Johnson, as she kissed her adopted daughter. "Ay, that it yvas, my lass. There's only one thing we're afraid of, and that is that some one else may lay claim to you. But what's making you look so pale, lass ?" Before Ursula could reply, they heard tho sound of heavy footsteps in the. kitchen and a voice say : "Then as you can tell us nothing, I'd-like to sec the master," and Betsy answer : "Go forward. They went to the hayfield, but maybe they arc back now." Steadying herself against the doorpost, and trying t« control t Intromiting of her limls, Ursula looked round, as a tall, stalwart man in uniform advanced, followed by four other men similarly attired, whom she guessed were prison warders, and she steeled herself to face the ordeal. The man in charge of the party touched' his cap. "Sorry to trouble you, sir, but have you seen an escaped convict ?" "No. But I've only just come in. My yvifc and I've been th<? last hour in the hayfield over yonder ;" and Reuben pointed over his shoulder. "I'm pretty sure he came this way, because we've found his cap." Then he looked at Ursula. and something in her face roused his suspicions. "Have you seen anything of him, miss ?" he asked, abruptly. "Yes. 1 w ; ,s in y-.e summer house, and he- leaped the wall." she said, in a trembling voice. Mr. and ""Mrs. Johnson altered exclamations of surprise and dismay. "Which way did he go '.'" demanded the odicer. "I don't know-, i was frightened, and 1 hid my face in my hands. When I looked up. he'd gone ;" and her voice shook as she spoke. (To be Continued).