THE NOVELIST. WHAT BECAME OF HIM?

Saturday Advertiser, Volume III, Issue 124, 24 November 1877, Page 3

THE NOVELIST. WHAT BECAME OF HIM?

Chapter V.—The Indians. ( Continued.)

Three months had passed away. Three months, bringing changes r dver the face of the Palomba country shell as thirty years could scarcely have produced elsewhere. A town 5 had sprung up all round the valley where the diggers' tents had been scattered three months before. The liiim of busy thousands were there from morning till night; but it was the hum of a city, not now of a lawless’goldfield.'-', , Two gentlemen had arrived by one of the numerous coaches that ran from Sacramento to Palomba, and were slowly strolling, side by side, out of the town,! and towards the still uninvaded wilds of Palomba mountain, as it was Called, which rose rugged and craggy above the town. Side by side they walked on slowly and in silence, each apparently wrapped up in his own reflections. They had left the town far behind, or, more properly, below them, and now stood upon a small plateau, so seamed and fringed with strange irregular walls of quartz rock, and deep, almost unfathomable, water-courses, as to present a most striking and unusual appearance; It was not, however, apparently at the peculiar features of the landscape that the travellers were looking. As if by common consent, although without a word, they walked slowly over the rocky ridgq on which they stood, and through a green little valley beyond, towards the deep ravine formed by the mountain stream at tlieir side. Near the middle of this hollow one of them stopped, and, pointing to a curious looking block of white quartz beside them, said, “ It was just at the foot of that stone, Jim, that I came upon Silas Chohbin’s body. I knew him in a moment; he had one hand clenched tightly on his breast and his discharged pistol in the other. I knew I should find our gold next his heart, poor wretch !”

A few yards farther, and they came upon a grave. The green grass and the bright flowers of the country had covered it already, and at the head was a simple wooden cross without name or date. The two men stood long on either side of the simple mound of earth ; not a word was spoken by either of them, and it was not until the gathering gloom of the still evening warned them that it was time to go, that they clasped their hands over that lone grave, and turned away with dimmed eyes from the spot. Truly, though he slept in an unnamed grave, Tom Smith was not altogether forgotten.

Chapter YI. — The End.

It was Autumn once more at Beachford. The village looked hut little different from of old. The cottages had the same amphibious look close to the beach, giving the impression of utter ‘ indifference on their part as to whether they were called upon to make a sea voyage or not; while those higher up the hill looked as anxious as ever to assert their connexion with the Hall rather than with the beach, only injured by the very decidedly fishy odour which somehow would cling to them. On the Hall itself, however, a more than Autumn blight seemed to have fallen. The giant oaks and elms did indeed look melancholy enough as they scattered their ghostlike leaves on every breeze that blew, hut they might be said to look cheerful compared with the Hall itself. It was not deserted, for the usual number of chimneys still smoked day by day, and the same numbers of fish were daily consumed within its walls; but yet it looked blighted and forlorn. The servants walked softly, and spoke under their breath, as if there were some one dead in the house. The look of hearty life that had surrounded the old mansion of the Fortescues, seemed to have died out with the last direct line. The Baronet was there indeed, but that only seemed to make matter worse. While he was away, which was for the first year of his reign at Beechford Hall, you might have heard the milkmaid’s song in the park, and the mower’s merry whistle on the lawn, hut since the master’s return, these seemed to have died altogether away, and nothing more cheerful than the cry of the sea mews as they winged their way across the promontory on which Beachford stood, enlivened the dreariness of the park by day, and the- whoop of the owls that honoured the oaks in the old avenue with their presence by night. Sir Charles was at home. Indeed he was always at home, and it formed one of the gamekeeper’s many grievances that “the

Measter” (he never would call him Sir Charles), “ didn't never show, his feace fo a ‘blessed hare or pheasant! all the year round, he didn’t.” 1! It was perfectly' truer f Sir Charles seldom moved out of the house, but usually made use of a long corridor for his solitary walks. At times, indeed, he would go out, but it was only to pace up and down the long melancholy avenue jof oaks apd elmsthat led up to the hall, with his hands joined behind him, and his head bent towards the ground as' he walked.; ’f O n tile - day on which we revisit Beachford, the Baronet had been unusually restless. All the forenoon he had paced incessantly up and down the long gallery where the old portraits of -the; house of Fortescue gazed sternly down. from the walls upon the first out of the direct line who had ventured to inherit their family name apd honours, fie did not seem to be the victim, liowever, of aiiy superstitious fears of that kind, for he took no notice whatever of the portraits, but with his somewhat sunken eyes r fixed 011 the floor, pursued his walk without once looking up. The principal sign of consciousness which he exhibited was, that his lips moved at Times as though he were being forced to say something against his will. The quickly shortening autumn day was beginning to draw to a close, when, as if inspired by some sudden resolution, lie seized a hat, and leaving the' house by a side door, took his way to his usual walk in the avenue. By the eager and excited steps with , which he traversed it, so different from the usual dreary routine walk of the man, it was evident that something either had happened, or was expected to happen shortly, that affected him nearly. Something had certainly occurred to excite himfor, as he paced rapidly down the avenue, his lips moved constantly,, and at times he even extended his arm as if he were making a speech. Once he stopped altogether, and drew a letter from his pocket. He did not open it, however, for he shuddered as his eye fell upon the hold manly writing of the address, and thrust it hastily once more into his pocket. His walk did -not, as was his custom, terminate just as he came within sight of the lodge, for he walked rapidly on to the park gate, scarcely noticing, and in no way acknowledging, the repeated and low curtseys of the gamekeeper s wife, gazed wonderingly after him from the door of her house. The Baronet looked anxiously along the road and up the hill, but was unable to see anything apparently, for with an exclamation almost amounting to an oath, he was turning reluctantly away, when he caught sight of the dust raised by some vehicle travelling evidently at speed, on the top of the farthest hill on which the road was visible. He watched it with the greatest anxiety as it rapidly approached, walking impatiently up and down in front of the gates in evident excitement. The carriage presently rolled up to the gate, and its occupant, recognising the Baronet, stopped it by a sign, and jumped out to meet him. It was Mr Gibson. Sir Charles came up to him, and made a show of shaking hands ; this, however, with easy politeness, the lawyer managed to avoid noticing and changed the greeting into a cold formal bow. His manner evidently affected his client unpleasantly, for merely want to speak with you, Mr Gibson, he turned, and passing through the small postern gate, apparently forgetful of the horses and carriage, led the way into the long avenue. The lawyer did not remind him of his mistake but merely signing to the driver to stay where lie was, followed the Baronet. For some way they walked on in silence, until indeed they were out of sight of the gate, when Sir Charles turned suddenly round upon his guest, and in a tone of strange emotion, asked abruptly, “ Well, Mr Gibson, and what of that businesss ? Have you heard anything more from that beggarly bastard who pretends to own these estates ?”

The calm grey eye of the lawyer was fixed upon his own for a moment as he ceased speaking, and involuntarily paling under the glance, he hastily turned his eyes on the ground. “Sir Charles,” said the lawyer, after a moment’s pause, and articulating his words very distinctly, “ I have done what I could for you in this matter; of that I hope you are aware. Beyond a certain point, however, it is neither consistent with my interests, or indeed with my conscience, to proceed. That point, as it seems to me, we have now reached. ”

“ What do you mean, Mr Gibson? What do you mean, sir ? I assure you, sir, I don’t comprehend you. You are my lawyer, sir, are you not ? And bound to look after my business, sir, and my interests in every way, sir! In every way, are you not ?” In his excitement he had ventured to face Mr Gibson’s gaze once more; but it was only for a moment. His eye fell; there was a hot flush upon either cheek, but otherwise his face was very pale, or rather grey. He looked ghastly in his excitement. “To your first question; sir,” replied the lawyer, slowly and with emphasis—“ To your first question, I reply that you perfectly understand my meaning ; to your second, that although as yet your legal adviser, 1 do not consider that I can advance any farther m this matter with advantage or dignity either to my client or myself.” Sir Charles regarded him for a moment with a look of amazement, which was actually pitiable in its distress. * “ What! what do you mean, Mr Gibson ? he faltered out, after a second’s pause. “ Not

with advantage"bf"dignity“to me ! to me, air! What can you , mean, sir 1 _ Am I, sir—l—tounderstand" that you- don’t; think it of any advantage .to?- prevent; an b illegitimate Jchundrel-, sir, c away>myj rightfol, :! ■inheritance iriy dignity' to defend tlm uaihfr’ahd propertyof my ancestprs, sir !” " s -i " f ‘ lix * V(t No, 1 sit, to speak plainly, I.do notbelieveit the : yoiifir advantage now lies in" yielding up what you had no right ever to possess, to the proper heir, and eveh' a shred of dignity, will'lie-in-'Jth'e lidesire'- which yourcousin will naturally have to shield, as far asmay be, the character of his dead parent, who may-thua-stand'-between yourself -ahd ignominy.” The lawyer spoke sternly and calmly, with thn yofce of a judge pronouncing sentence on a criminal. ; As he- spoke, Kis .companion's head/sapk upon his breast in utter dejection. When h& concluded, however, the old fiery temper of the man to whom he spoke reasserted itself.. He raised his head with a proud motion, and although thei flush on his cheek had gone out, as it were, there was a flash in his dark eye, which told .of the new strength which utter desperation lends to the soul of a man. He faced the lawyer with" aproud bearing, which commanded his involuntary respect, instead of the feeling of almost contemptuous superiority which had been evident in his last words. For a moment he faced him without faltering ; then with an indignant wav6 of his hand, he exclaimed,' ‘- -• “ Begone from my sight at once, and do not insult, by your miserable taunts, the man whose cause you have evidently sold as far as lay in your power ! Begone at once, sir! You are no longer my legal adviser !” In spite of the entire conviction of the guilt of his client, (.with which ,Mr Gibson’s mind was possessed, it was not without a certain feeling of discomfort that he obeyed the order that he felt he could not resist. He turned away, however, and in five minutes the sound of his carriage wheels resounded through the long and now rapidly darkening avenue of Beachford Hall. Until that sound fell upon his ear, the Baronet had stood motionless, gazing down the path by which the lawyer had disappeared. He then turned without any sign of emotion, and began to walk towards the house ; his step was, however, weak, and he staggered more than once, like a man who had received a severe blow. The rapidly waning light made it almost impossible to see his face, which was turned towards the ground. The Hall was all in darkness, and presented, it must be confessed, a very melancholy and ghostly appearance on a night such as that, to any one who approached it; its profusion of quaint gables, and tall chimneys of uncertain shapes, showing out with startling vividness against the leaden-coloured sky; the numerous and fantastically shaped windows, showing nothing but deep and cavernous blanks, like the huge ayes of some giant scull; and to complete the effect, the great old trees, with their now almost bare branches tossing abroad with a strange wild moaning, in the sharp gusts of cold wintry wind that swept across the promontory from sea to sea. It had a ghastly effect, there was no denying it. And even to a man whose conscience was clear, and his spirits not unusually depressed, it miglit have brought an unpleasant feeling ; to Sir Charles,.however, whether because his conscience was not clear, or because his spirits were low, it seemed to convey an extraordinary feeling of oppression. He seemed scarcely able to take his eyes off it, especially one window, and even when he appeared, able to do so, he trembled so much as to bescarcely able to walk, but had to lean for some minutes against a tree for support. Partially shaking off the feeling of however, he reached the door by which hehad let himself out, ■ and quickly traversing the passages and stairs, regained his study. Th e room, which was a large and old-fashioned looking apartment, was perfectly dark, with the exception of the grey light still making its way faintly through the stained glass of the window, and a red glow from the embers in the grate. Here he threw himself into an arm-chair, like a man worn out by lik emotions, and covering_ his face with his hands, sat perfectly motionless, as if buried in deep thought, or perhaps enjoying that - merciful relief from sensation which'miseryfinds in the torpor that succeeds an emotion, over-tasking the mind. (To be continued .)