LARRY'S HUT.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 1568, 28 February 1873, Page 3

LARRY'S HUT.

9■' — ♦ B (From the Argosy.) Our cottage stands a quarter of a mile b from the village, separated from the highway 3 only by the trim little lawn in which my E mother and Nellie and I cultivate our - favourite plants and shrubs. But I could see t neither plant nor shrub as I stood at the hall I door on this Sunday I am going to tell of, i for the heavy darkness of the November i evening had engulphed them all. I watched 3 the last glimmer of the lantern which the - maid carried as she walked with my mother. 1 and Nellie to church; then I drew back into I the hall with a shiver of relief, and locked . and bolted the door. i The drawing room was warm, and bright, f and snug, but my first act was to poke the, i fire into a still more cheerful blaze. Then I i sat idly before it for a time. I pictured my > mother alone in our seat in church; and i Nellie at the harmonium, taking my place ■ because I was not well enough to go out to- , night. Then I wondered whether Mr Carr, i our young unmarried rector, would walk ■ home with them after service, as he was very fond of doing when Nellie was there. ; Whether Mr Carr came or not, I had no fear for them through that walk from the village; I should have laughed if anyone hitd suggested such a thing to me. We knew every villager well; we even knewby sight the men who were felling the trees on the heath, for ia our long winter walks we often passed them, either at their work, or resting with their pipes, in the shelter of Larry V hut— a wretched little ahed enough, too, t. be the only shelter they could get o.u tii bleak upland. It was not very likely I should 1 e^in t ■ f>■ r for my mother and Nell'e, when this wus tn. seventh winter we had spent in this villas in perfect safety and peace. Peace! War it really peace for all of us ? The word, s.

wide and calm, and wonderful in iia meaning was hardly yet my own to grasp and keep. There were times when I felt that it would come, and that my life need not be a listless or an idle one ; bat there were cither times when I fancied it was jo.o nearer to me than it had been on that day, a year, ago, whea the news had come to me— to me flrst;of all, as I stood at the garden gate in the sunshine ! —that Alick had been drowned on his. way home to me. ;\ •■ Ah me, where had the sunshine gone when I crept back to the house, wrapped in the chill gray mist? And at such times the fingers of my right haad? would .close. upon his diamond, and my heart burn and quiver in the cruel grasp of its overmastering sorrow. It would have been so much easier, I thought, to be patient and content if I could have had Alick's last glance and last words to remember. If I had been able to recall those, instead of that horrible solitude of the storm-driven sea, and the utter loneliness of Alick's death. I rose from my seat before the fire— ray thoughts should not wander in the old sad way on this Sunday night—and went to the piano to sing ; drifting at last, as I generally did, into the beautiful hymn which pleads for those in peril on the sea. Then the tears, that come so often to my eyes now, welled up and fell upon my fingers; on Alick 'a ring ; on the diamonds I loved so dearly, because they told me always of the wealth and richness of his love, and of the brightness and purity of the home in which I tried to follow him now with my longing thoughts. The notes swam before my eyes, so I bent tny head upon the music-desk and let the tears have their own way. The room was hushed and still, the whole house was wrapped in silence, when I he^rd a knocking at , the front door ; not loud, but long and hurried. A quivering pain ran through me for an instant, less i like feat than a foreboding, and, with my heart beating heavily, I sat motionless while the sound died away. If it should be repeated I must go. The silence had hardly settled .when it was broken once more-; this time the summons was even quicker and .more, hurried than before, and I did not hesitate another moment. . . ; . ; ; "What is it?" I inquired: nervously, before I opened the door, but with my fingers ready on the latch. < " Quick 1 open the door," said a man's voice, low and anxious. " Why ?" I asked, a hundred fears assailing me at once. " Don't stop to question." returned the voice, sounding muffled, because the hurried words were uttered in a whisper ; " your mother has been taken ill in church, and they are carrying her home. Open the door and show a light. They will be at the gate in a moment." Not an instant longer did my fingers hesitate on lock or bolt. I threw the door open wide, and turned hastily to fetch the lamp, my knees tottering under me, my heart beating rapidly in its fear. The man who had spoken to me through the closed door walked at once into the hall behind me ; then, turning coplly round, he locked the door upon us both, and pocketed the key. In a lightning flash I understood the truth then, and for an instant cowered to the wall in t a helpless panic of alarm. He came up to me, a painted mask covering his face except 1 ' where the eyes shone through the paper sockets. " All right now," he said calmly, " don't bother about moving the lamp. 1 want its light in there for a bit. Come along." But at the rude grip of the man's on my left haad, my trembling helplessness ,fled, and I started from him with all my strength. ■" I won't keep you long," he said, as he followed me into the lighted room, speaking in a rough determined tone, which he was evidently trying to disguise. "At least it will be your own fault if I dp. Pass me over that ring. That's all I want; -bo the quicker you are about it the better." The immoveable painted face was close to mine, and the savage, hungry eyes were fixed upon me behind their lifeless sockets. I felt — as my own eyes fastened themselves upon the repulsive face — that Boon my senses must leave me, and I fought with this feeling as an animal fights with death. " Never mind staring," exclaimed the mainV roughly seizing my wrist once more ; you'll never make much out of my face ; don't try ; hand me over the diamonds, and let me be off ; I'd rather you did it than trouble me to help myself ; not that I'll make much of » trouble of it, either; I'll give you two minutes from now, not a second longer ; s.t about it at once." " At firat no words would come to my lips when I wanted them ; but before the two minutes were over— bo utterly weak was I, and so isolated from all help— l had begun to plead with this robber, begging him to take other things and leave me my betrothal ring. I really think I told him, in my fear and my distress, how the ring had been put upon my finger; how I had promised never to remove it ; and now I never could through all my life, because Alick was dead.,' The words came tottering from my lips until they ended almost in a prayer. •• Take my watch, or what you will, only leave me this." " I don't want the watch," he answered, carelessly; "it might be a trouble to me, and I'd rather be without it; but the ring I've set my mind on ; I've had my eye upon it once or twice wli a you played at church, and the lights fell on it; I've been watching for you to stay at home alone at night, and now I'm not going to be baulked, I can tell you. Now then, the two minutes are gone, and so is my patience."' " I shall never tike this ring oil," I faltered, locking my fiagers tightly together, " never; I promised I never would. Do you expect," [ cried, with a sudden change of tone in my despair, " to commit such a robbery as this and go free ? In Bpite of your masked face, 1 could swear to you by your voice before any judge in England.", (To be continued.)