“IN THE TOILS,”

Southern Cross, Volume 9, Issue 2, 13 April 1901, Page 13

“IN THE TOILS,”

By John K. Leys, Author of The Lindsays,” &0., &c

[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]

A Romance of to-day.

CHAPTER XXVII

Mr and Mrs Hill Go on a Trip to

Scotland,

It must not be supposed that Theodore Hill enjoyed much ease of mind during the weeks that elapsed between the day when Brackoel, with his'assistance, forged bis and the day when Mr Ashleigh-Srnith and his family set sail in their yacht; he lived in continual fear that his wife would by some accident discover the truth, aud denounce the cheque and the mortgage deed as forgeries. When the yacht had actually sailed he felt a little easier, but he felt very •well that the danger was by no means over. There was another trustee, Dr. Brotherton. If the fraud were discovered, Helen might tell him, without knowing that she was, m effect accusing her husband. But that was not the only source of danger. One afternoon in the first week of September, Augustus Bracknell came hurriedly into Hill’s office, and,'without troubling himself to remove his hat, threw himself into a chair. ‘ Well ?’ said Hill. ‘lt’s all up,’ answered Bracknell, gloomily. ‘ What do you mean ?’ ‘ Underhill won’t wait any longer. He says he must either have the money he advanced to you on the security of the deed I signed, or give notice of it to the trustees at once. He will give us a week, he says, and not a day more.’ ‘Why did you go to a man like Underhill ?’ cried Hill, angrily ; ‘ his name is enough to suggest that there is something fishy about the transaction.’

‘Do you think a regular banker would hare consented to advance the money without letting the trustees know of the affair at once ?’ retorted the other. 4 Bat it’s no use quarrelling. The question is, what is to be done ?’

‘lf Underhill gives notice of the deed to Dr. Botherton,’ said Hill, slowly, ‘ he will at once write to Helen, and ask why she did a thing of that sort.’

‘ You might prevent her getting the letter,’ said Bracknell, quickly. ‘ One letter, perhaps. But if he ound his letter was not answered he would insist on seeing her. Then, of course, she would say she never signed any deed of the sort, and— ’ ‘ And we would be in Queer Street. Underbill would prosecute me, and you, too, even if your wife or Brotherton did not. Is there no chance of your being able to raise the money on the shares ?’ Hill shook his head.

‘ I heard yesterday,’ he said, ‘ that some water had got into the mine. It will take two or three weeks to get it out ; so the shares won’t be worth anything to speak of for a month or so, and then, I expect, they’ll go up with a jump.’ ‘Too late for us! said Bracknell, bitterly. ‘ Exactly,’ At this point of the conversation Mawson entered the room, and handed a card to his employer. ‘ A man has called whom I must see,’ said Hill, hurriedly. 4 You had better go now, Bradcnell. I’ll let yon out this way. You can come back in an hour’p time.’ So saying, Hill opened a door which led directly from his room to the outer staircase, and thus got rid of his visitor, who walked about for an hour, and then returned to Hill’s office. Some time elapsed before the two men separated.

Next morning, as Hill tamed over the letters on the breakfast-table, a

few minutes before bis wife came downstairs, he noticed a bulky envelope addressed to Helen. At the first glance he knew what it was—a banker’s pass-book ; and his heart for the moment stood still. ‘ She has written for her bankbook secretly, the cunning cat !’ he said to himself ; and in another moment the pass-book, which would have told Helen that the £12,000 had been abstracted, was reposing safely in Mr Hill’s breast-pocket.

In another moment Helen entered the room. So far was she from wishing to make a secret of her writing to the bank, that she said, after glancing through her letters, ‘lf you are passing through the bank to-day, will you ask them to send me my pass-book. I wrote for it yesterday, and they haven’t sent it.’

‘ You mustn’t expect them to send it by return of post,’ answered Hill, without looking up from his newspaper. ‘ln a large establishment like the City and West End Bank, they always require a few days before making up a customer’s bank-bank.’

And Helen, who was quite ignorant of the ways of banks, was quite contented with this reply.

When he reached his office that day Hill, after giving Mawson the usual directions for the day, added, ‘And get a fire lighted in my room.’ ‘ A fire, sir p ’ echoed the young man, for the weather was unusually mild.

‘Yes. I don’t feel very well today.' This was not a mere excuse. Ever since his second interview with Bracknell on the previous day, Hill had been in a kind of fever —now hot, now shivering with cold. All that day he was disinclined for business. He hung over the fire when it was lit, revolving many things, indulging in vain regrets and useless longing. Atone point in his musings he took his wife’s bank book from bis pocket, tore off the envelope, and opened it. There the fatal entry stared him in the face—- ‘ Self, £12,000.’

He took out his pocket knife, deliberately cut the book into pieces, and burned the leaves in the fire. The cover, being of parchment, would not burn, he knew, without causing a telltale odcur ; so he carefully erased his wife’s name and the name of the bank, and thrust it into his pocket, intending to drop it in some out-of-the-way corner.

That afternoon he received a note from Lubinoff, inviting him to dine at his house that evening. 4 1 send you this short notice,’ said Lubinoff, 4 because I want you to understand that this is not a formal dinner-party. We shall be quite alone, and my sister will not expect you to dress. If you cannot come it doesn’t particularly matter. We shall hope for your company some other evening.’

Twelve months before Hill would have given half his fortune —and he did have some available capital in those days—to have received this letter. Now he was deeply agitated, but torn in two opposite directions. Should he accept the invitation or not P

It seemed to him like the parting of two ways. True, there was nothing in itself important about this invitation. But it was, clear to him now that he stood on a footing of friendship with the Lubinoffs —on such a footing: that they ought to know that he was a married man. To keep silence any longer would be equivalent to deceiving them. Did he mean to deceive them r Besides, his wife expected him to come home as usual. He must tell her some lie,

or at least hide the truth from her, if he went. He was almost surprised at himself, that he could not make up his mind; he wished to go to the Lubinoffs, yet something held him back. s

At length about five in the afternoon, with a half-articulate cry of defiance- as if he< were repelling some pleading spirit—he rushed out of his room, went to a telegraph office, and, without allowing himself further time for reflection, despatched three messages. The first was to Ivan Lubinoff, accepting the invitation ; the second was to bis wife, saying that he was sorry he was obliged to dine in town, and that he would hot be home till the following day ; the third was to Augustus Bracknell, telling him to meet him at his club at eleven o’clock that night. On his way to Hampstead, Mr Hill stopped at a florist’s shop and bought the finest bouquet he could see. Then he cut the ribbon which bound it together, picked out the choicest flowers, and threw the rest away. The selected blossoms he put into a small basket and carried them with him as an offering to Veronica, He was in doubt as to her reception of them, but the girl took them with a warm ‘Thank 5 ou,’and the giver could see nothing in her face or manner to indicate that she considered the gift as peculiar or fraught with any special meaning. The dinner was simple, but well managed ; and Hill was able to forget for a time his anxieties, his perplexiiies, and his plots. After dinner Veronica sang, and her brother and his guest sat in the darkening room, listening in silence. It would be difficult to describe Hill’s sensations as her voice entered the gateways of his soul and flooded it with melody. For the moment he was half persuaded to give up thinking of Veronica, except as a sister; to go home that night and tell his wife all that he had done, and meet whatever reproaches or disgrace or punishment the avowal might bring in its train. He even caught himself in the act of taking out his watch, to see whether, if he left Alymer Terrace at once, he should be in time to catch the last train to the Kentish village where his home lay.

Bat then he remembered the telegram he had sent to Bracknell. He told himself that that engagement must be kept—and let the hour of grace go by. All the way back to London Hill kept telling himself that he would give up his scheming, face bankruptcy if so it must be, and live a quiet life on the interest of Helen’s twepty thousand pounds. But he was unstable even then. Down in the depths of his heart there lurked an unreasonable, mad hope that Yeron-, ica might yet be his—and he did not cast it out.

Hill went home as usual on the

following afternoon, and after dinner he said to his wife—

‘ Don’t you think, Helen, we ought to go away somewhere this autumn ?’ ‘ It would be very nice,’ she said. ‘ But do you think, dear,- that we can afford it ? lam quire content to stay on here. It is not as if we were living in London, you know.’ Hill frowned.

‘lf I had not had the money to travel with I would not have proposed going,’ said he. ‘Well, dear, of course, it would be very nice. Where did you think of going ?’

‘ Oh, I don’t know. Where should you like to go P’ ‘ I don’t know. I had not thought of it. 1 suppose we had better go to the seaside —Brighton, or ’ She stopped, wondering whether the name of the town in which he had courted her would awaken any tender memories in her husband’s mind. But his thoughts were very differently engaged. ‘ I hate the seaside,’ said he. ‘ I think no place on earth is so dull as an English watering-place, unless one is capable of enjoying the sight of nigger minstrels, or crowds of welldressed fools.’

‘ What would you propose, then, Theodore ?’ said Helen, with a smile.

‘ I should say Paris would be better, and the Rhine.’ ‘ Oh, that would be delightful! ’ cried Helen, her eyes beaming with pleasure. ‘ How kind of you to propose it! ’ Her husband, however, did not notice either her looks or her words.

‘ I should like to get a little shooting first, if I could manage it,’ said Hill, looking away from his wife to the other end of the room. ‘ I have a little place in Scotland, but I have been too busv to get away this autumn. It is very late, of course, for grouse, but that doesn’t make any real difference. How would it do for you to come with me to the Highlands ? I daresay they could put you up after a fashion ; and then, after a week or ten days’ shooting we could come south as far as Leith and cross over to Antwerp or Rotterdam, then up the Rhine, on to Switzerland, and home by Paris. How would that suit you ?’ ‘ It is all the same to me, Theodore. I have never been in Scotland. I should like going to the Highlands immensely, and I don’t mind roughing it one bit. I really don’t.’ ‘ There is a man, a friend of mine,’ said Hill, speaking speaking slowly, as if with an effort, ‘ who has a share in the shooting, a man called Brown. Would you mind if he were there at the same time ?’

‘ N —no, Theodore, not if he is a friend of yours,’ said Helen, thinking that her husband was wonderfully considerat of her feelings. ‘ls he nice ?’

‘ Well, he’s not much of a lady’s man, you know; but a very good fellow in his own way. You needn’t see more of him than yon like.’ ‘ This Mr Brown,’ said Helen in a hesitating way, 1 be won’t be with us all the time, will he P Hot while we are abroad, I mean ?’ ‘ Good heavens, no ! What put that into your head ?’ asked Hill, with a strange suspicious look at his wife. ‘ Oh, I don’t know. Hothing, dear.’ ‘ I can’t stand this any longer T said Hill to himself. He started op. ‘ How hot it is !’ he exclaimed. ‘ I think I’ll go outside and smoke a cigar.’ ‘ Hadn’t you better smoke in the library, Theodore ? You said you were cold before dinner, and I told Peacock lo light a fire there.’ ‘ A fire ! Good gracious, no I What a fidget you are, Helen. I am burning hot—By the way,’ he added, as he paused at the door* ‘ when can you be ready to set off ?’ ‘On our trip, do you mean F Ohj almost any time. When do you think of going ?’

‘ The sooner the better. But I must run. down to—to Liverpool for

a day or two on business, first. I shall be away for several days. Coaid you so after that ?’ ‘ Yes.’

‘ "V"e'y good. Let us start this day

week.’

The arrangement was carried oat. Hill left London and was away for the rest of the week, returning on Saturday, or rather on Sunday morning. On Monday morning the husband and wife set off. They had no servant with them, the house being shut up and all 'the servants sent home to their friends on board and wages.

In the railway carriage, as the train was about to start from the platform at King’s Cross, Mrs Hill put a letter into her husband’s hand. ‘ I got this from the bank manager just before we started, Theodore,’ she said.

For the moment Hill was unable to utter a word. He took the letter

in silence

‘I wanted to see how much I had in the bank before we left home, so I wrote again for the bank-book when you were away. It seems that they had sent tbe bank-book. I wonder what can have become of it ?’ ‘lt must have got lost in the post office,’ said Hill, in a thick, unnatural voice.

‘ I suppose so. But I asked what my balance was and they say —isn’t it odd F’ that there is nothing at. al!— that I owe them&ve pounds and sevenpence : and all the time they have twelve thousand pounds of mine.’ ‘ Hush, don’t speak so loud,’ answered her husband, still speaking in a hoarse voice. ‘lt is very easily explained. Ton see, the twelve thousand pounds, being a large sum, was placed with the bank on deposit. It was not put into your ordinary current account at all, and would not appear in your bank-book.’ (This, of course, was untrue.) ‘ Oh, I see, I knew I had taken out all I had except the twelve thousand; and now it seems that I have drawn too much.’

‘ I will repay the five pounds,’ said Hill, ‘ but you must not draw any more cheques in the meantime.’ ‘ Ho, of course not. And the bankbook ?’ ‘ There cannot be a doubt that it has been lost in the post-office. I can inqurie if you like, but it would only be needless trouble. It is only a copy of your account in the bank ledger, and another can be prepared at anytime.’ Helen, quite satisfied with these explanations, busied herself in selecting a novel for the journey from the newsboy’s basket. The whistles were sounded, the little green flag was waved, the ponderous train crept, slowly forward, and the long northward journey was begun. CHAPTER XXYIII. At the Corrie Farm. There was no apparent reason why Helen should not have enjayed her trip. The weather was delightful; the country was new to her, and in many places beautiful; while her husband’s conduct was irreproachable. But she saw »that a weight was on his mind, that he was often abstracted and apparently oblivious to what was passing around him. She would have asked him whether the Mina Dolores shares were still undisposed of, but she feared to provoke a new outburst of displeasure, and thought that the best way was to avoid the subject altogether. ‘Surely,’ she thought, ‘Theodore was making out things to be worse than they ere. We cannot be so very poor, or he wmld not be able to afford this expensive trip.’ They spent the first night in Edinburgh—a night in which Helen did not get a wink of sleep, owing to the din kept up by the shrieking locomotives and trucks banging one against another. She would have liked to stay for a day or two to see the city, but he husband was anxious to get further north, so they left for Greenock by an early train in the

morning. Daring the journey to Greenock, Hill explained to his wife that two

years before he had taken a three years’ lease of a small property in the West Highlands, for the sake of the shooting. There was a farm-house, not a regular shooting-lodge. The bouse was called ‘ The Oorrie Farm,’ from a large corrie, or hollow on tbe hill-side, which was not far from it. The only way to reach the place was by one of Macßrayne’s steamers, the Chieftain, which called at a pier not very far away, twice a week. ‘ That is frequent communication for those regions, I assure you,’ said her husband ; ‘ bat it has this disadvantage : that if a letter is posted to you in London on Monday, you will not get it till Friday or Saturday ; so it may be a fortnight before your London correspondent gets your answer.’

‘ That doesn’t matter,’ said Helen ; we don’t care about letters. All we want is to enjoy the scenery and the shooting.’ Her husband m?de no reply, but turned quickly round, looked out of the carriage window, as if to catch sight of some object which was being whirled past out of the range of his vision.

At Greenock the travellers found the Columba awaiting them ‘ Oh, what a fine steamer ! Why can’t we have steamers like this on the Thames ?’ cried Helen, as she caught sight of the vessel’s noble proportions. ‘ But wasn’t St, Columba a saint F Why isn’t the steamer called Saint Columba ? ’

‘ Oh, you forget we are in Scotland, and the Scotch do not believe in saints, excepting John Knox, Martin Luther, and Jenny Geddes. But let me introduce Mr Brown to you, my dear. I told you we should find him on board.’

And Mr Augustus Bracknell, attired in homespun knickerbockers and the regulation deer-stalking cap, was introduced to Helen, under the name of Brown. Helen did not care for the stranger’s appearance. There was something coarse in his expression, and there was too much swagger in his air. He did not lower his voice, as a gentleman does, when speaking in a public place, but let the bystanders within a radius of ten yards have the full benefit of his remarks. She wondered how her husband, who always looked and spoke like a gentleman, could endure to have such a vulgar man for his friend. And yet, though she chafed a little at being required to meet Bracknell on a footing of equality, his advent contributed to her comfort. During a large part of the voyage down the Frith, the little party remained together; but after Ardrisbag had been reached, when the canal had been traversed, and they had embarked on the Mountaineer, which was to take them as far as Oban, Helen was left very much to herself. Her husband and his friend remained a great part of the afternoon sitting over their whisky and water and cigars in the refreshment cabin. The Ooloraba had been crowded, unpleasantly crowded, in fact; but the number of passengers on board the Mountaineer was more moderate. Helen selected a spot abaft one of funnels, where the great red pipe sheltered her from the wind, and helped to warm her. There she could sit in peace, and watch the hills becoming darker and darker under the cloudy sky. Ho purple haze rested on them ; the summer and the August bloom of the heather were gone; the more minute beauties of the scene —the copses of mountain ash and silver birch, the lichen covered rocks, and deep-flowing streams, were of course invisible. The scene was only grey tossing sea, dark-blue hills, and leaden sky—here and there a low-lying island, with perhaps a solitary, white-washed house, that had not so much as tree beside it, to break of the winter gales. There was nothing of the cheerful or the familiar in the landscape ; and yet the sight of it was to Helen like the sea-breeze blowing on her cheek and the scent of the salt water, soothing and invigorating.

They reached Oban that night;

and the next morning before breakfast they embarked in another steamer, the Chieftain. There was something so fresh m this mode of travelling, sleeping on dry land, bat spending all one’s waking hours, and taking all one’s meals at sea, that Helen’s spirits rose in spite of herself. If her husband had been more responsive she would have been gay. As it was, she tried, and Bracknell tried, in vain, to draw him out of the abstracted, melancholy mood that possessed him. His wife could hardly get him to speak to her, though when he did speak to her, it was in a tone of voice unusually quiet and gentle. He liked best to stand alone at the side of the vessel, and watch the water as it rushed past, white and foaming, as if it were hurrying on with some mysterious, unknown purpose. The vessel was bound for Skye and Ross-sbire, and the first voyage lay through the Sound of Mull, It was a gloomy day—not showery, but cold ; and the wind was refreshing. At Tobermory, the little town which is the only collection of houses in Mull, the steamer stopped. Some cargo had to be taken on board, and the captain intimated that those passengers who wished to do so might go to visit a waterfall which was only a mile from the pier. Helen happened to be below when the walk was proposed, and when she came on deck the found that her husband and some of the other passengers had availed themselves of the opportunity of taking a stroll. Mr Brown (as she had been taught to call him) had not gone, for she caught sight of him in the forepart of the vessel, watching the process of driving lambs on board.

Half-an-hour passed, the cargo bad been nearly all shipped, and the steamer’s bell had been wrung as a warning that she was about to resume her journey. One by one the passengers were coming on board, but Hill had not returned. Anxiously did Helen scan the quay and the street which fronted the sea ; her husband was not to be seen.

To her relief she saw Bracknell slowly making his way to her along the deck.

‘Ob, Mr Brown,’ she cried, ‘ the steamer is about to start and ray husband has not come back. What shall we do ?’ ‘ About to start ! Not for another half-hour,’ was the answer. ‘ Skippers always make those demonstrations by way of frightening their passengers on board. I saw a quantity of cargo coming down the street which will take quite halt an hour to put. on board ; and your husband is far too old a traveller to allow himself to be left behind. I have ordered a cup of coffee for you, Mrs Hill, in the saloon. Would you mind taking it while it is hot ?’

Re-assured by what her companion had told her, Helen went below ; and Bracknell ordered a second cup of coffee for himself. A few minutes passed, and then Helen suddenly rose from the table, saying that she would go upstairs and see whether her husband had come on board. Bracknell followed her, and assisted her to mount the cabin-stairs ; he was the first to reach the deck.

‘ Why !’ he cried, ‘ the steamer has left !’ The little town was fast receding' in the distance. Helen, hardly able to speak, sat down on a bench.

‘ Don’t be alarmed, Mrs Hill,’ said her companion. ‘ Most likely your hasband has come on board. If he has not I will speak to the captain, and ask him to go back. As a matter of fact the steamer had set sail almost as soon as Helen bad seated herself in the cabin ; bat the saloon was lighted only by a skylight, so that she could not see out; and the smooth water in the harbour bad not made the vessel roll in the least. Bracknell went about the deck for a few minutes, rapidly scanning the different groups of passengers, and then walked hastily up to the captain, with whom he talked for a minute or two, pointing now and then to the harbour they bad just left.

Going back to Helen with a dejected air, he said, ‘ I fear Mr Hill has been left behind after all. It is really very stupid of him. And the captain refused to go back.’ ‘ Oh, let me speak to him ! ’ cried Helen.

‘lt would be of no use. I have said all I could,’ was the reply. ‘ I will try, at any rate.’ ‘But you could not go up there on the bridge.’

‘ Oh, Mr Brown, do try once more to persuade him ! ’ cried Helen. Bracknell did as he was told ; but presently he came back, saying ‘ I knew it would be of no use.’

Helen then insisted upon speaking to the captain herself; but by that time the steamer had proceeded two miles on her course ; and the captain very reasonably pointed out that as the Chieftain was already behind her time he could not, go back merely to pick up a passenger who bad been left behind by his own carelessness, and who could follow by another steamer in three days’ time.

Helen turned from him without a word, and went back to the deck, almost iu tears.

Tn a quarter of an hour, Bracknell, wh ’ had been down below, to make sure, as he said, that Hill was not on board, came up to her, and out that there was no cause for disquieting herself over the incident. ‘ After all,’ he said, ‘you are going to you husband’s house, where you will arrive to-night. I will see to your comfort on the journey an 3, your husband will be certain to turn up on Friday or Saturday. Why not make the best of it.’ This seemed to Helen sensible advice. She determined that she would not be foolish, or make any more fuss about what was, after all, only an unpleasant accident. Her companion behaved very well, seeing to her comfort, but not troubling her unnecessarily with his presence. As the afternoon advanced the wind grew fresher, and as the steamer began to roll considerably, Bracknell persuaded Helen to go below. The unaccustomed scene, the dim oil lamps, the rolling motion, and the keen sense of isolation she experienced, made Helen feel as if she were in a nightmare. After trying to swallow a cup of tea, she lay down, the hours passed by withont her being able to take much note of them. ‘What o’cleck is it? And when shall we arrive P ’ she asked, as Bracknell entered the cabin.

‘ We ought to have been there by nine; but it’s past nine now. I fancy it will be eleven before we land,’ was the answer.

Two more weary hours went by; and then Bracknell began collecting the luggage, and told Helen abruptly that it was time to go on deck' ‘ Take this ; you’ll want it,’ said he, as he offered her a heavy plaid. ‘We have some distance to go by water after we go ashore.’

When she reached the deck the hoarse cry of the steam whistle, sounded as a warning to those on shore, met her ears. She could see by the starlight that the steamer was in a land-locked bay. The hills, looking black and terrible in the darkness, stood all around.

Groups of people were standing about the deck, looking at something that Helen could not see ; but soon she perceived a light flashing on the water, and in a few minutes a large flat-bottomed boat, rowed by toutstalwart Highlanders, came tossing on the waves till it seemed to be tossing up to the steamer’s side. Then a rope was thrown out and made fast —lanterns flashed—orders were shouted out in Gaelic —packages were thrown from the steamer’s deck on board the boat—a door was opened in the bulwarks, and a short iron ladder was let down from the ship’s side.

‘But I can’t go down there!’ cried Helen, as Bracknell hurried her forward.

‘ Ob. yes, you can. There’s no danger, not a bit. I’ll see that you are taken down i» safety.’ She went to the top of the ladder.

The boat was tossing about on the waves, close up to the foot of the ladder one moment, two or three yards away from it the next. Clinging to Bracknell’s hand, and supported by one of the officers, Helen l got down the narrow iron steps. It seemed by the merest chance whether she would reach the boat or fall tnto the sea. But the men knew their business.

‘ How, ma’am, jump !’ cried a voice. The boat came up obediently (as it seemed) under her feet. Helen made a short jump, and was received by four sturdy arms in perfect safety.

Bracknell and one or two more followed. A few more Gaelic shouts, and the steamer, looking so huge and powerful from the surface of the sea. went off like a ghost-ship into the darkness.

How silent it was there in the boat! How black and threatening the hills !

The land was soon reached, and there Helen was transferred, with her luggage, into a smaller boat. ‘ Where is my husband’s small bag ?’ cried Helen.

‘ I didn’t know he had one,’ said Bracknell. ‘lt must be on board the Chieftain ; but it will be quite safe. All the people employed on these steamers are scrupulously honest.’ The smaller boat had only two rowers, an oldish man and a younger one. Heither of them knew more than a few words of English. For hours, as it seemed to Helen, they rowed on and on, close to the shore. Often the mountains seemed to come right down into the sea. Hot a sound was to be heard but the sough of the night wind, the ceaseless lapping of the water at the bows of the boat, and the thud of the oai’s in the rowlocks. At last the, head of the boat was turned to the shore, and she was skilfully guided up to a small stone jetty.

It was not far from the water’s edge to the Corrie farmhouse. Helen could see that the house was sheltered by rocks, not by trees. It was a small, but solid - looking building, erected so close to the hillside that the ground immediately behind it was almost on a level with the eaves.

Here Helen was received by a tall, rough-looking woman, who took her at once up a kind of step-ladder to her bedroom, where she found a peat fire burning. The bed was hard, but clean, and Helen slept soundly till late in the forenoon.

On going downstairs, she thought she would take a breath of fresh air before breakfast, but to her surprise she found the front door locked and no key in the lock. Making her way into the kitchen, she saw the same woman who had received her the night before, and Helen tried to make her understand that she wished the door opened. It was of no use : the woman would not do as she wished.

Then Helen tried to go out by the back door, but the woman stood before her, and would not allow her to pass. ‘ What is this P ’ she cried, as a great fear stole into her heart. ‘Am I shut up here like a mad woman P Am I a prisoner ?— : Mr Brown ! Where are you ? ’ The woman repeated his name, and pointed out of the window across the sea.

Helen dashed at the window, but her jailer quietly dragged her into a seat and held her there. Then the horrible truth burst on her mind. i ‘ My God!-Oh!’

Then there was silence. Helen had fallen back in the chair insensible.

(To be continued.)