THE MAID OF THE MILL.

Rodney and Otamatea Times, Waitemata and Kaipara Gazette, 17 February 1915, Page 2

THE MAID OF THE MILL.

f tit HIBEW Hlnmtß.^

BY MARTIN J. McHUGH,

Author of "The Death Mask," "The House by the Reefs," Point Light," " A Trick of Cupid's," " A Little Brown

Hen," etc., etc

CHAPTER IX..—(Continued.)

"The man who was injured at tne coastguard station a couple of miles north of Sandcove on the evening of Mr. Brandon's death," explains ! the doctor. "He was attended by Dr. Keyne, who afterwards came on to Sandcove, but who only yesterday told me the details of the accident. Nobody knows exactly how that happened, but Samson was found unconscious on the cliff below the coastguard station, a rifle lying near him. The man had sustained a severe concussion of the brain, and it is not known even yet whether he will ever be quite right again."

"Could a bullet from his rifte—

"No, no," said the *»ctor. "The spot where Mr. Brandon was shot is quite out of nange there. But all the same, Coastguard Samson may be able to tell us something of interest, and so I wish him a speedy recovery.''

"It isn't any easier to know what to think now than it was when we began talking, sir," said Jim, with a perplexed shake of his head. "But who could think out a puzzle like that in this stifling street? Ah! sir, how our heads would be fit for anything out in the lovely air of Connemara now! Think of the old days, sir, on the lakes, or in the woods, or over the great, wide, black bogs "

"And Miss Kitty riding by the road, maybe, throwing a look out of her two lovely eyes. God bless her!" said the doctor, and he paused on the entrancing recollection. Then he came out of his reverie to add almost fiercely: "Jim, do you know that poor Kitty's child is breaking her heart with fear and sorrow, and that she'll never know a happy day again until her father's death is cleared up and her lover's name free from suspicion, so we must enter on a determined effort to unravel that mystery, and use all our wits to succeed in that as soon as it is humanly possible*"-

CHAPTER X.

The visit of Inspector Rudd and his colleague had left Mary Brandon in a state of twofold mental torture. In the first place, she found herself longing more feverishly than ever to communicate with Dick; to know his whereabouts, and be assured of his safety; to exchange sympathy with him after the shock of her bereavement. His disappearance seemed to have benumbed her thinking powers, and she could only cling to the frantic belief that he had gone away not knowing what had happened. In the face of the inspector's statement that Dick had not taken passage for Canada, she had not at first known what to think; then she had come to the conclusion that either the police had made a mistake or that her lover had journeyed to the Dominion by an indirect route. That he had not written to her had caused her daily and hourly distress, which became all the more poignant as the time arrived when she could have heard from him and still no word came. At length, when her feelings became unbearable, she had confided to her one faithful friend, and the doctor had then let out the fact that a warrant had been issued for Dick's arrest. At that Mary's fear that her lover might disclose his address became as great as had been her distress at not hearing from him. In her agony of mind she had an outburst of despair, which had sent the doctor on that mission of investigation that had ended so fruitlessly. But Mary, although she grew pale and thin, did not sit down to brood over her sorrows. On the contrary, she roused herself to a life of such activity as she had never known before. She spent more than half her day in the mill, where Sam Quayle had now as much work as he could get through. It was a relief to Mary to have some occupation to take her out of the Manor just then. For one of the minor sorrows consequent on her great trouble was a coldness that had sprung up between her and Mrs. Townley. Much in the light of a mother as Mary had for years regarded the housekeeper, she had been wounded for the time being, past forgiveness at the manner in which she had sought to divert suspicion from Dick Graves. For the very nature of those efforts convinced her young mistress that Mrs. Townley herself shared thosr

picions.

If Mary had needed another csase for exasperation against Mrs. Townley it was not lacking. From the day of his return to the Hall. Lord Havely resumed his visits at the Manor. Mary, having met him civilly on a couple of occasions, made excuses to rid herself of uch un-

welcome and embarrassing intrusions. *

But it was apparent that Mrs. Townley, forming the conclusions she evidently had respecting Dick, was convinced that she was doing her mistress a service by facilitating the visits and attentions of Lord Havely, and regarded the Countess's coronet in his Lordship's gift as sufficient compensation for all the sorrows of the orphaned daughter of the Manor. Certainly Mary- had reason before tong to believe that Lord Havely was given accurate information about her movements, tor he frequently waylaid her, not alone on her \vay to and from the mill—although she varied her hours to avoid him—but often when she went to the village, or even took a longer journey.

When bidden by her father she had resigned herself as patiently as she could to endure Lord Bavely's attentions, hoping against hope in Dick's ultimate restoration to favor. Now mistress of her own destiny, she had no intention of submitting to the renewal of that unwelcome suit. She soon . managed to intimate that to Lord Havely, gently but unmistakably.

But Lord Havely was not so easily to be shaken off, and it was with the most sauve of manners that he met Mary's show of spirit. Before long he somehow made the girl feel both foolish and rude whenever she exhibited resentment at his attentions.

Mary knew her own mind, however, and had no misgiving that her resolution would be broken even by a suitor whom she now' began to fear as well as. detest. She tried to treat him with indifference after a time knowing how he wasted his tmie in his endeavours to usurp Dick's place. In the end she became to regard Lord Havely's intrusions as but a small anxiety added to those great ones that preyed so constantly on her. And, therefore, she did not think it worth while to tell Dr. O'Hara of this amorous persecution.

For she had to regard the suit as an amorous on Cj since Lord Havely played the part of the infatuated lover with admirable skill. But, although she was not ignorant to her own attractiveness, Mary's truthful soul would not allow her to flatter herself into any belief in his Lordship's sincerity. And somehow she had a conviction that the mill that had already*caused some contention formed the background of those attentions.

The second month following hei father's death wore away, uneventful in important issues. Dr. O'Hara who came to Havely whenever he could spare a day, had to report failure in all his investigations with such increasing uneasiness that Mary, to whom some small measure of peace had come, had almost to plead with her friend not to distress himself. The tragedy, she said, had better be left alone as long ( as Dick was safe; acd she was confident that everything they* were to know, would be revealed in due time. y

One evening in June, when the mill had been working late, Mary, going over the little foot-bridge, encountered Lord Havely. Dressed in a tweed'suit and cap, he looked handsome and quite youthful. But Mary, who at the moment was thinking of her absent lover, and recalling the last meeting with him at that spot, saw none of Lord Havely's attractiveness. On the contrary, his presence there and then specially irritated her.

The blood rushed to her cheeks, and she stared at him in undisguised aversion.

"You are making yourself a slave to that mill, Miss Brandon," he said, genuine admiration in his face. 'However, it need not be for long." "It will certainly be for life," she answered, glad of the opportunity of speaking her mind. "I shall never sell that mill to anybody, but shall devote myself to it as long as I can take an interest in anything." "Hobbies are soon ridden to death," returned Lord Havely after a pause, during which he looked at her spirited face with mingled amusement and approval. When you marry " "I shall probably never marry," she returned, angrily. "And anyhow, Lord Havely, permit me to say that that matter will never concern you." "1 like to hope that it will, and most intimately," he said, drawing nearer to her and lowering his voice. "I like to hope that in a little time, Miss Brandon—Mary— when you feel less pain from recent misfortunes and mistakes, you will honour me by becoming my wife."

"I shall never become your wife, Lord Havely," she flashed back. "And do not delude yourself with the belief that I would alter that decision, even if I forgot my mistakes —whatever they may have been.*'

"One of them is having been in love—ror fancied yourself in love— with a man who, besides being unworthy of you, can never now claim you. A fugitive from justice who'

"Stop say no more," commanded Mary. her eyes aflame and her tips quivering. "In return for that

I hate you, Lord Havely. I Kate you from the bottom of* my heart, and would die rather than marry you." ; - Lord Havely's tace suddenly got a hard" cruel look, and he caught the girl by the arm roughly and said: ■,

"Hate me or love me, you shall marry me, Mary. If you will not consent to that, and soon, I shall find an irresistible means of persuasion. You doubt me? Very well. ■ Then listen——n

And then, lowering his voice to , a whisper, he sp ' ? some worSs ' into Mary's ear that instantly drove all the colour from her cheeks.

CHAPTER XI

The following evening, as Dr. ' O'Hara was taking a snatched* dinner in the snuggery of his Bermondsey home, where the atmos- , phere was at its worst, he was sur- ! prised at Mary being announced and shown in,. I "Why, my dear, what news, good or bad, brings you here?" he

asked, as on taking her hand in his he mechanically felt her pulse, which- was hard and rapid, while he looked keenly into her pale and strained face.

"I don't know whether my news is good or bad," she answered, agitatedly. And then she burst out, in a gasp, "Oh, Doctor Dan, let me collect my thoughts a moment, until I find the words to say what 1 have come to say."

"A little later you may have any hospitality my humble roof affords, Mary—though I suppose you are luxuriating at the Waldorf or some such place to-night," and the girl nodded with the ghost of her old smile. "But before you have anything more substantial, you must take this for your nerves." And he mixed a drink from a drug bottle, which she obediently took. "And now, Mary, what's your little trouble?" he asked, lightly, trying to hide all trace of the anxiety he felt.

"You were right to attach trie importance you did to the necessity for discovering my father's murderer, and 1 was wrong to think that security lay in allowing the matter to rest," said Mary, abruptly. "Now two months have gone by since my poor father died, and I feel that we shall never solve the mystery. Every day that passes makes that the more likely. Oh, Heaven forgive me for my moral cowardice! But I shall be well punished for it."

"My dear, my dear, we must have patience," said the doctor, startled, "I am afraid," he went on, almost mournfully, "I have not nearly exhausted all possible efforts on your behalf. But, you see, time has gone by rapidly. And 1, too, like you, have thought it best to go quietly. I feel, though, that we shall find fight soon."

"We shall never find light now —never," returned Mary, with a sigh. "You could not have done more than you have, Doctor Dan— so there is nothing more for you to do. I have done nothing but try to stifle the agony of my heart in any work I could find, while I had to listen to rumours that daily more and more confirmed my fears."

"Come, come, Mary—do not take such a despondent view of things now, since you have borne the worst so bravely^' said the doctor, taking her hand. "But, tell me now, what has occurred to arouse your fears? Something has, I am sure."

She did not answer. The room was glooming, and he turned up the gas.

"Come now, Mary,'' he repeated, persuasively, "Tell me what has happened to add to your anxieties?"

"A week after my father's death Lord Havely returned to Havely Hall, and the following day he called on me," said Mary, with the same abruptness that had characterised her opening words. "Then he renewed his attentions, and he has ever since been pestering me with them."

"Why didn't you tell me this before, Mary?" said the doctor, starting in surprise. "I should soon have sent the fellow to the right-about."

"It did riot seem fair to add to your troubles—indeed, it hardly seemed worth while troubling myself about him," replied Mary, in a dead tone. "I showed him in every way 1 coeld how unwelcome his attentions ,were, but he would not see that. Do you know, Dr. Dan, he is one ot those persons who cannot be repelled, and who, if they get the time and opportunity, can do pretty much what they like with you. I, at any rate, have often of late felt like a child in his hands."

"He is a clever-, plausible scoundrel!" returned the doctor, angrily. "But if you let me deal with

him '

"Well, Dr. Dan, yesterday evening he waylaid me when I was coming from the mill, and proposed to me *'

(To be Continued.V-~M.fti. &