A SCARLET SIN.

King Country Chronicle, Volume III, Issue 171, 8 July 1909, Page 3

A SCARLET SIN.

(ALL rights Ri:-T:n\ r:r>>

A POWKI.'I-'I'L STOI.'V.

By ALKT. .1-.■..'. <t\' :■•: askkW, Authors of "IT ;-h-i : at<-i.r..\" "An. OA of the Plains." Ac, &C, —:—«

THIRTEENTH INSTALMENT J They found Elsie's hat and cloak on the hank or the river, and it was easy to guess Iho manner of the girl's death. Not that her body was ever recover**!, though the river was dragged and every search was made : hut still the little hat and cloak, taken in conjunction with Elsie's let' ter. told their own story. "Xot but that there was one strange thing." Liddy muttered, 'an' an unco strange thing, too. I»uke Fnrraday disappeared on the very dny the stir was made about.Elsie. He'd left his house at dawn, an' tekin' but a twig wi* him. back to Metherly he never came again, hut wrote up froe London to say that the farm was to be sold—sold immediate.*." "Oh. do you think" interrupted Pamela. Then she paused, for she rratixed everything now. I .tike Farrnday must l»' Basil's father. He had evidently taken Elsie >*l> to I>ondon with him ami married h»e there. Then her face paled as she turned to Liddy and asked : "What became of Clinton iVele? " Liddy shook her head. "Ah. my bairn, that's the trouble. Clinton Pe**le who had left the inn at nine o'clock to keep his try**, never returned ; but thn-e or lour days later n letter in his hnnd writing arrive*!, bidding them at the inn his bag anil the clothes he had ttf't in his room, his easel, anil his K>»tr»'mg box to some hotel in Edinburgh. He sent the siller that he »«►•*!. but ga\*e no explanation as to why h> had never returned to the inn The guid folks then? thought the whole aftair queer : but they were canny enou". an* said it was none o" their business to Ik? curio Us OWer other folks" affairs. Liddy paused. Pamela gripped Liddy** hand in her own and pressed it tightly. Her young face looketl pale and harassed. "I timnn say. You will na' force met*» .13*. cried Liddy. fiercely, but •e ken lassie what is in my mind." "You think my father murdered Clinton iVele in a lit of rage, and buried his liody in the moor* ?"" Liddy inclined her head gravely. A long and terrible pause followed. "Hut the letter." began Pamela. at last—"the letter from Kdinburgh. ami written you say. in Clinton peele";* own hand writing. How do »««» account for that. Liddy?" She press*tl h-r hands wearily to her forehead as she s|»oke. She was lost in a mist of doubtful conjecture and vague surmise. "I canna say. but this I ken. lassie Your lather went Imek tae London wi' a sair. white face an' troubled »"en ; but touching Clinton IWIe. Klsie an' Luke Fnrraday. naught war heard o" the lirst two. livin" or dead. An" as for Luke, he sold Metherly. an" was seen it» these pails tine mnir. There wen* folks wha said though, that the graceless young lo«nv. Sir Charles Sainton, who cam' into his uncle's land a few years later. iw»r*' a strange liken-** to Clinton IVvle. They tnicht hue been brothers, an' baith as bad as each other. I *»y—sons o" th" devil, worker* o" iniquity, profligates.-an' wimbrWiers." Liddy"s voice rose shrill tin*! (i» t«e , h-r eye* blazed with SUddcn fnv.

Str Charles. Sainton." murmured J'atu-Ui. slowly. "That"* the name of the tn«i» who was one ni the hidd-rs n.t. th* sale. I wonder what interest h** has had in wbhing to purchase Mrth'-rly ? "

She spoke in dreamy ton's, then raised her eyes and glanced at the little clock on the mantelpiece. "Look at the time. Liddy ! " she excloinutl. "IH» you realize that Mr. Perrint has lieen over an hour in my father"* room ? t shall go and interrupt the prolonged tete-a-tete. I must hear what they arc talking about."

She moved towards the door, and Liddy made no eflort to detain her : for the woman recognized that some trouble might follow the interview betw.,en Rob Perrint and George Martindale—recognised this with a lutl and mournful heart.

Pamela made her way down stairs lu»r felt iitvous. and faltered for a wf.mrl at the door of her father's r*n>m. Then she opened it boldly nnd tHiws in with set face and compres- *'•*! lip*. !:.->]► Perrint. who was sitting in a Ms: arm chair drawn up by the side «n the b-d. glanced nt h«»r over his huj.-k» shoulder. It was impossible to guess from the expression on his lace if he were pleased or annoyed by h.«T adt'ent : but George Martindale. whp sat up prop|ied against the pillows, etoook a thin, trembling band, as if to wav« his daughter away.

CHArTES XVIII. A TKRRIBLB ALTERNATIVE. "Father, don't you want me?" Parti.*la took no notice of Rob Perrm". but made her rapid way to the twdstde. gnsing anxiously at the sick man. Why did George Martindale appear so upset to see her, and how was Perrint going to account for himself ? "Xo. Pamela. I don't want you. Why have you come, my dear ? You" ought to be in bed. and resting." George Martindale spoke in feverish, agitated tones. Ills cheeks were flushed with colour and his eyes glistened brightly, but there was no possible doubt that his senses had been restored, and that once more he was the complete master of himself. -"My kind nurse has been ordered to her room to get some sleep," he went on, quickly, "by our host who has been sitting with mc, keeping night watch—Mr. Perrint, to whom we owe so much." He cast a long, nervous glance at the .icotrhman as he spoke, as if he wor.' anxious to please and conciliate him. Ram-la noticed this with anxiety ; rii>rtced also the crafty smile on Rob p.-rrfni's face, and the triumphant way he eyed her.

"I v> •. {n'h«-r." -h" cu; - «.•!•••. = . and ■ \\-u ?urn-vl to I'errir.J. "I v. ill .sit !:■■;■■■ now. till old L.ddy makes lur .t;>;>«-nmr»ce." the girl .saul. tiymjx t«i :>i.i.k-• her manner n|>|»ear cool ami •ine«»(n-erned. "1 think the invulid hns over-tired himself talking to you Mr. Perrint, and ought lo try to go to sleep at once." Rob Perrint laughed, then, instead of replying to the girl, he addressed himself to George Martindale. his voice taking a commanding tone. "Do ye ken what this lassie o' yours says? We've been talking ower lang together. You arc to send me out o' the room, an* go to sleep. Shall we talk or am I to leavo you wi' the bonnie lass ? " He brought his huge hand down with a heavy slap on his thigh, as he spoke. It" was evident that Pamela's npls-arance so unexpectedly had annoyed him. "lion't leave me; not till we have settled matters between us. You go back to bed. Pamela." he went on. "There are certain things which I want to discuss with Mr. Perrint—affairs of which you know nothing." "Secret* ? " she cried, passionately. "What have you and my father to discuss together that I may not hear ? Are vou talking about Metherly ?"

She flushed a vivid crimson as she asked the question. then trembled violently, for her father sank back upon his pillows with a low cry. as if she had stricken him to the heart. Rob Perrint rose to his feeV and looked at her sullenly, then pointed to George Martindale.

"There." he muttered, "see what mischief you've done, my lass. Now gang your nin gait, and let us to our talking again : for I tell ye one thing—your father's in greivous ficril an" there's only one man in Scotland who ran see him through."

He tapped hi- big ehest as he said the words, then stalked heavily aeross the room and o|iened the door for Pamela to pass out. She hesitated, then cast a nervous, imploring glance nt the white huddled-up lig'ure on the lied—he whose sunken eyes were so full of pitiful terror.

"Itear—dean's t father." she entn*nted. "I .will leave you alone with Mr. Perrint. if you really wish it ?" She fixed a long and lingering glance on him. "Is there any secret which you wish to confide to me ?" she asked. "For if there is trust me with it . nowtrust me instead of a stranger." She clasped her thin, delicate hands "Perhaps I know more than you think 1 do." she continued, "for I vi'tn to have learned so much—so very much during the last few hour*."

"So. no." interrupted Rob Per'rint- "What your father and I have got to discuss isn't for your dainty r«ar*. Send the la*s away." he added addressing himself roughly to the **iek man. "We are not talking o' matters lit for a lassie lo listen to. Men's work is In-fore us."

He laughed hoarsely, and ran his lingers in ami out of his shaggy heard.

"You hear?" muttered George Martindale. He had turned the colour of grey ash by now. "Leave Mr. Perrint and myself alone. You ran do no good, child, by stopping hen—only ha cm." "I see." she answered, faintly, overcome by a painful sense of terror for she realized weir enough what was in store. Rob Perrint would roine to her later on ami say he held her father's life in his hands ; ami then, when she cow-en*! in front of him. pale and aghast, he would demand the kiss she had refused in the churchyard. She walked slowly out of the room, wondering miserably what the next few hours would bring, and above all how she would ever find courage to face Hasil if he came. One f lhin 0 was certain. She must keep the whole miserable family story to herself, nor breathe a word to blacken his mother's fair fame. Basil must not hear of the disgrace of Klsie Farrnday from the lips of the girl he hived, lest that should prove the crowning drop in his cup of bitterness. "For I must send him away as soon as he arrive*." Pamela murmured brokenly. "I must not allow Rasi! to stop at Stoneport. He might hear and learn too much—suffer as'l suffer. I was wrong." she commented sadly, "to have written to him. for I. who am George Martindale's daughter, must die unweil. la'l it never Is- said of my children that a murderer's blood runs in their veins."

.She shudder* *1 as she said the fearful words, muttering them lowunder her breath ; then a still more dreadful thought made her clutch desperately at her pulsing throat. She was recalling Rob Perrint's words and his rough wooing, his outspoken resolve that she should bo his wife. '

The girl turned faint and giddy, and could hardly make her way back to her room.

Liddy was hovering anxiously by the door, and ran forward as soon as she saw Pamela approaching and threw her arms about her. questioning her silently, with troubled eyes. Pamela's courage gave way before the other's sympathy, and she let her hand fall helplessly uj>on the pld woman's shoulder, tears coursing quickly down her white cheeks. "Oh". Liddy. Liddy." she whispered "the deep waters arc o\"cr me. I feel broken and s|»ent—drowned in misery and despair." Liddy made no answer, but clasped Pamela close to her withered breast and crooned over her as ii she had been a child.

Meanwhile in George Martindale's sick room the two men faced each other silently, the one pale as death the other with flushed checks, and rough, 'triumphant smile. "Shall we go on wi' our crack ? " Itegan Rob as soon as the doqr closed !>ehind Pamela. "Yes, yea," muttered George Martindale. He plucked nervously at a fold of linen sheet as he spoke, and fixed his wretched eyes upon the other. The dawn, streaming in at the window, lit up the room, but with a cold and pitiless light. Outside the rain dripped heavily on the grass, soaking the turf, and making the fallen, autumn leaves sodden and dank. The grey of the morning had a hint of the shroud about it, and spoke of vlenth and <!>-«-ay "I was t.-Ilir.K -•• !"-:<;iv the lass came." o>mmen'"-''i '!>■ Scotchman, "thn' ye <■•*•.■•.■ ;:.u,h during

Tell —jist a word here an* a word there in the nicht, a moan an' a sob. Oh. George Leslie " he called the boldly by the unfamiliar name —"most men sow grain in the fields, but ye sowed " He paused and did not finish his speech ; his blue eyes burned upon the sick man's face. "So you listened to my ravings," —George Martindale forced himself to speak with some show of confidence — "and then tried to make sense of such wild utterings ? A foolish trick —a foolish trick " He laughed, but the terrible overacted laughted ended in a broken sob "Why in the de'il's name, mon, do ye want to make en enemy o' me? " blustered Hob Perrint. "Will it hurt you or me maist. d'ye reckon, when the plough turns up the Methcrly soil. as it surely will ? For if all I hear be true, them as has bought those miles o' barren land expect a rich gleaning. There's coal, they're saying now. hid in the bowels o' the earth "—he said the last words slowly and deliberately—"coal to be found in the Mclherly soil, an' they may find "

Again he paused and hesitated as he had paused Inrfore.

"Why do you torture me—madden me like this ? " cried George Martindale. flinging caution to the winds nt last. "And why. a second ago did you address me as George Leslie George Leslie died long ago." "Ay. on the same night that Clinton IVele drew his last breath." responded Rob grimly ; then he walked up to the bed. and stared down at the other. "I ken yc weel." he said, slowly, "though I was but a lad when ye left these parts—a nameless brat, an' yc was a young laird. I kenned yer face when I met ye wandering daft among the fields —ye're George l>eslie. Ye're he who showed me a kindness one day—a kindness when ye was high an' f was low." "We'll, what if I am George What if lam ? " interrupted the other.

"Well only this,"- returned Rob Perrint; "I'm willing to help you in your trouble. The bones hidden under Metherly soil must be dug u|>— dug up before the land is reaped. An' who's willing to help—who but the mon who speaks to ye—the mon who kens the truth ? "

He smiled as he spoke, then fell to stroking and ruffling of his red beard again. "The bones dug up—a dead man's hones dug up ? " George Martindale repeated the words in low tones ; then he suddenly clasped his thin hands together, and in trembling accents demanded of Rob Perrint the whole truth as to why the other took such an interest in him, and how he knew the fatal secret of the Metherly fields. Rob drew close to the sick man. and then dropping into the broad Scotch he always used when stirred or excited over anything, he began to tell George Martindale the story i>f how the other had spoken to him very kindly one day long back in the past, at a time when all the gentryrut the nameless lad also of other kindnesses George had shown. Then with flushed ami burning cheeks he mentioned the.incident of the photograph and how the pictured face of Pamela Martindale had filled him with an intense desire to shelter and protect the girl's parent.

"Oh, so that's why you took a daft man in ? " muttered George under his breath ; 'then a watchful and anxious expression came over his face. He was concerned on Pamela's account. He was filled with fear for his child. What did Rob Perrint mean by his reference to Pamela ? Did he dare to think that she would look at such a one as himself ? He caught his breath, and clenched his hands as the other went on to say how George Martindale's wild, unconscious confessions had told him all he wanted to know. This he had been hinting to the invalid before Pamela had burst into the room. Xow he spoke out plainly and brutally, openly accusing George Martindale of Clinton Peele's murder also of having buried his victim's body in a field on the Metherly property.

"I own to the so-called crime-," answered George at length. A curious calm had come over him, a strange, almost unnatural courage. "But the man deserved that blow from my blackthorn—the blow that killed him,"- he added —"deserved it well."Rob Perrint nodded his head : he then lowered his voice, and asked George Martindale if the murdered man had any pajnjrs upon him at the time of his death which, if his remains were discovered, might be used as evidence against his murderer. George laughed grimly, and told the questioner that ho knew Clinton Peelo had a certain letter in his pocket-book—the letter he had written requesting an interview with his sister's betrayer, and appointing an uncultivated field at the back of Metherly as the trysting-place. He was aware of this because Clinton Peelc, Whom he had met on that fatal evening for the first time, had held out George Martindale's let fiat the other's approach, almost as though he were presenting some credentials, and had then put the note back in his pocket-liook.

"To moulder and rot with his wretched body," George added. He then went on to say that he was not afraid but that the years had done their work, and so that little evidence could bo found in the way of papers ; but the blackthorn stick—the stout, heavy stick which had proved such a deadly weapon in his hand, and which had his name engraved on a silver band—might have a different tale to tell—an incriminating talc. He whispered how he had buried the stick by the side of the dead man muttering in low tones of the horror of the night's work, and the ghastly grave-digging. He had had to leave the body of his victim after he had struck his deadly blow, and go in search of a spade. He knew well enough where to find one. There was a toolhouse on the Metherly estate that it would be easy enough to enter through a broken window, and then; he would have no difficulty in finding a spade, go he had gone off in search of it and returned later. •"I see,"- interrupted Rob ; then he leaned forward and looked George hard and straight in the eyes. "You felt you must hide the dead man a. way, bury him deep, p;le the earth, over him. Rut Xha blackthorn ? It was a foolish thing tae do tae bury the stick, mon." "The stick was red.'-'- muttered George, in low. horror-stricken tones -'■ Just as 1 tell you the whole field was red—red with blood. "- .To bv continued.