Sent INTO Exile

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXII, Issue I, 7 January 1899, Page 6

Sent INTO Exile

By

C.E. Chelseman..

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CHAPTER XI. AN URGENT MESSAGE. For more than a year I had heard very little of Hilda and her father. 1 had no correspondence with them. It was from my aunt, from Mr Tomlins, or from an occasional mention in some newspaper that 1 heard of Hilda's success in her first appearances. She was warmly praised by the dramatic critics and great things were prophesied of her future. Dalzell also appeared to be doing well in his profession. He had had one relapse, but Tomlins, true to his principles, had pulled him up again. The manager bore him about everywhere, even as Sinbad carried his Old Man of the Sea, but with this difference, that while the sailor of the legend would have been very glad to rid himself of his burden, Tomlins was always adjusting his upon his back, and tightening his hold upon it. It would slip down, despite his efforts. Good old Tomlins! There are not many who cling to a shabby and disreputable friend so faithfully as you have done. The first hint of disaster came from my aunt. ‘I can’t make Hilda out,’ she wrote to me. ’Her letters are cheerful enough, but she tells me nothing at all. There used to be a good deal about her in the papers and theatrical journals, and her father would clip the notices out and send them to me. I believe the man actually thought he was triumphing over me. As if I had ever said Hilda would not succeed! But 1 have seen nothing about her for some time. I don’t know how she is getting on. 1 believe she is well; but one can't be certain when she says so little of herself. She seems to be more anxious to hear from us than to send anything in exchange. But you are no better. ’t on think a scrappy little note quite sufficient answer to a long letter from me. That is, when you do answer. .Some times you haven't even enough civility for that.’ I apologised for my sins of omission in a letter of portentous length. My aunt in reply still lamented that she knew so little of Hilda.

‘1 am very anxious,’ she wrote. ‘Perhaps it is all nonsense, but I can’t help it. 1 have a feeling that something is wrong. I have not been quite well this last week or two. or I don't know whether I should not have started off Io find Hilda. I had got so bad as that. 1 am sorry to say that Hilda and her father are not with Mr Tomlins now. I don’t know' why they parted company. Hilda didn't particularise. 1 didn’t hear from her the last mail. I hear from no one. What a letter you sent me, Cecil! It looked like “copy” for the press, and there was no more information in it than 1 used to get in your little scraps. 1 want to hear about you,and not about all sorts of persons and things. But come and see me; that is the best way. Give yourself a holiday. I can't see why you should race through life as you do.’ This letter reached me when 1 was on the point of setting off for Auckland. When 1 arrived nt that place. I found my aunt from home. She had (><•<■ll ailing. I was told, and had accepted the invitation of some friends to spend a short time with them in the country. I had a good many acquaintances in Auckland, but no one with whom I was very intimate, except my old friend Walford, who some

few years since had settled here, and whom 1 encountered in the street shortly after my arrival. ‘Why. Blake, how are you?’ lie said, with a hearty grip of my hand. ‘Glad to see you back again. But you’re always on the spin. You’re a regular teetotum.’ ‘l’ve gone in for a holiday at last,' I said. ‘I mean to stay awhile.’ ‘That’s good news. You wouldn’t find Miss Winter in town.’ ‘No; lam sorry for that. Her house is a home to me. But she returns very shortly.’ ‘Oh, my good fellow, by this time you ought to have a home of your own. Seriously, you ought. Why don't you settle down? Mrs Walford and I are always deploring your unprotected condition.’ ‘That’s extremely kind of you and Mrs Walford,’ I said, laughing. ‘You married people are always deploring the condition of those who don’t follow your example. But what are the facts of the ease? Did you ever know a happier woman than my aunt ?’

‘Or a happier man than yourself, are you going to say? Why, you don’t imagine you look happy! That sardonic smile doesn't take me in. But never mind. We've hopes of you yet. and by the bye, though you don’t get settled, other people do. You will have heard of Miss Dalzell's engagement?'

‘No.’ I said. ‘I wasn’t aware that she was engaged. My aunt said nothing about it, and she ought to know’. But 1 believe she hasn’t heard from Miss Dalzell lately.’ ‘Well. Mrs Walford was told it for a fact. Her cousin knows the gentleman.'

‘Did you hear his name?’ 1 said. ‘Oh. yes. Gladwin is the name. A rich young squatter down South. I suppose Miss Dalzell will retire from the stage. It is strange you shouldn’t have heard.’

I explained that 1 only’ heard of Miss Dalzell by indirect means. That afternoon I received a letter from my aunt. She did not refer to Hilda, and in a most irrational manner 1 began to reason that this omission of the name of one who was always mentioned in ner letters proved the truth of what I had heard. She knew of the engagement, and for some reason or other would not write of it. She was displeased, or she thought I would be displeased. No; she couldn’t suppose that. But there was no end to the reasons I found to account for inv aunt’s silence.

My aunt seemed to have written for the purpose of telling me that she was sorry to have been from home when I arrived, and that she could not return just yet. Her doctor had told her that less than a fortnight's stay at the health resort she was visiting with her friends would be of little benefit. Would I send on any letters that might have come. She was afraid she hadn't been getting all her letters. She was feeling much better, and had got to work on a new painting. The subject was to be entitled ‘Parrots feeding on the honey of the scarlet kowhai flowers,’ and the picture was three feet by five. I collected several letters which through some neglect had not been forwarded. As 1 was putting these together I recognised Hilda’s writing on one envelope. This is the announcement of the engagement, 1

thought. My aunt has not heard. What Walford had told me had been confirmed by other persons, and 1 had no doubt of its truth. The next day I received a letter from Hilda. 1 suppose, 1 thought a little bitterly, she considers it her duty to write to me also. The post mark was Strathalvon, some little hamlet in the extreme south, and Mr Gladwin was said to reside near that place. I would not open the letter. What could it be but a formal statement of what 1 had heard already? Why should that be dinned into my ears? 1 did not care for such continuous reiteration. for three days 1 refrained from opening that letter. It began to wear a reproachful face. It stared at me from my table. The writing of the address formed itself into other words. It appealed to me, it reminded, it persuaded. Ashamed of my paltriness, 1 took up the letter. 1 would read it at once, and I would answer. A knock at my’ door. ‘Telegram, sir.’ 1 laid aside the letter to attend to this more importunate message. 1 had not the remotest idea of its purport, but from habit one always opens a telegram immediately. What was this? The name at the top was the same as that on the post mark of Hilda’s letter. And the telegram, the pitiful appeal I read with such eager haste, was signed Hilda Dalzell. ‘My’ father is dying and I am quite alone. Will you not come to me?’ The letter was torn open at once. It was only a few hurried lines. Hilda had written to my aunt and received no answer. She was afraid that illness might be the cause of this silence, as in her last letter my’ aunt had complained of feeling unwell. She knew that only something very serious would have prevented her from replying. She had seen my’ name in a passenger list in an Auckland newspaper, and remembering w’hat hotel I had been accustomed to stay’ at, had written this letter at a venture. Would I think it strange that she should ask for help? Ah, no; she was sure I would not. Her father was so ill that he could not be moved. She was amongst strangers; she had nothing left. She could not have made this appeal to anyone else. She would not have made it to me —to either of us—if she could have helped herself. 1 folded the letter and put it inside my pocket-book. 1 wrote a telegram. Scarcely’ was this finished and sent to the office by the hotel messenger than another knock smote the panel of my door. ‘Telegram, sir.’ Lt was a message from my aunt, which had been despatched from one of the stations on the Waikato railway’ line, and ran as follows: — •Returning. Serious news from Hilda. Send telegram. Say I am coming.’ By this I knew that my aunt would be in Auckland some time during the afternoon. Accordingly, when I went to her house towards the end of the day I found her at home. Her luggage was piled in the hall, and she herself, in bonnet and cloak, was sitting in her dismantled drawing-room, which the servant had had no time to prepare for her reception, drinking a cup of tea. ‘Oh, Cecil!’ she cried when I entered. ‘this is dreadful news! II is very’ unfortunate ihnt letter of Hilda’s should have been detained. That wretched Dalzell has drunk and gambled away everything He has dragged her off to that out-of-the-way place, Strathalvon —I’m sure I don’t know where it is—and now he’s so ill he can’t be moved, and she’s hardly a penny left. And, oh, what a simpleton I am! I told you to telegraph and never said where the poor girl was. And I thought myself a business woman. But my’ head is in a whirl.’ ‘Fortunately,’ I said, ‘I had already sent a telegram. I have later news

from Hilda than yours.’ And I showed her Hilda’s letter and telegram. ‘I said that we were coming. I reckoned on you without seeing you,’ 1 continued. ‘Her father is dying. It is doubtful whether we shall find him alive.’ 'Poor man! Poor Hilda!’ said my aunt. ‘We must go to her at onee, t eed. We must get her away from that place. How glad 1 am that you are here at this time.’ 1 told her what I had heard about Mr Rupert Gladwn. My aunt was contemptuous. •Rupert Gladwin! I don’t believe in any such creature. I wonder at vou, Cecil. You must be very gullible. Your Friend, Mr Walford, is a great deal too fond of small talk and of repeating little bits of gossip. We women don’t do all the gossiping, by a long wav. Why, if Hilda were engaged to this Gladwin she would not need our help. It would be his right, his duty to assist her. If he can’t do that he must be an extraordinary sort of man. You know the Gladwins’ place is only a few miles from Strathalvon.’ ‘Bitt she would want to have you near her.' 1 said. ‘She would he sure to write to you in her trouble.’ ‘True—very true,’ said my aunt, tenderly. ‘I am longing to be with her, poor child.’ Her trouble is sorer than you think. I was too sick at heart to speak of it at first. Her father has nearly drunk himself into insanity. That’s the horrible, naked truth. He has to be watched night and day, lest he should do himself an injury. She has saved him from that already. She has gone into his room and clung round him, and held him fast till help came. But she tells me that she lives in daily, hourly fear that some time he will outwit her. Life is only a torment for him, and though I would not have the wretched man die by his own hand, yet the sooner all is over now the better for him, for her, and everyone concerned.’ I felt as if stricken dumb bv this terrible news. I think my * mind scarcely grasped its full import; but afterwards, through long hours, I was to see in imagination the white-faced girl watching her father, stealing in upon him, shaken with deadly fear, lest she should see the awfui thing which had become the terror of her dreams, the haunting spectre which never left her thoughts. ‘But he is mad,’ I cried, ‘and she is alone with him in that place, and it will be days before we can get there. Heaven help her!’ ‘Heaven help her,’ said my aunt. ‘Even there, too, she hasn’t been left without friends. The people in the house have been very good to her.’ ‘But in this, the last she sent, she says that her father is dying,’ I said, reading over again the crumpled telegram. ‘So he is—dying by slow degrees. The poor creature is only trying to hasten what is coming of itself. Mad. did you say? No, he is not mad—not altogether so. Perhaps it would be better if he were.’

CHAPTER XII. ON THE ROAD TO STRATHALVON. All day from morn to noon, from noon to night, our steamer had rushed along. We had crossed the great bight in the western coast, steering on nearly a straight line, and were at our first stopping place, Taranaki. Out in the roadstead, where our ea ptain had cast anchor, a strong westerly wind was blowing, >nd the waves were tumbling one over the other in their efforts to reach the land. Our boat dances from crest to hollow, from hollow to erest again ; she springs and bounds and flings herself upon the slippery green walls of water as with a rollicking abandon in the sport. There are people on board, however, who say this is a moderate sen. Perhaps so —for Taranaki. We went ashore in the surf-boat, for we were to take the train here. We can waste no time on coasting steam-

ers. we must hasten on by the fastest means at our command. Early the next morning we were away, clanking and clattering along the iron road. The neat and cheerful town, the rich country that swelled in green waves of pasture land, in farm and forest, was left behind. Mount Egmont, towering to the eternal snows from its wide base of rugged ranges and their far-reaching spurs, gradually receded from our view. And along and along hurried our train ; but not fast enough —not half fast enough for our impatient hearts. It seemed a long, a never ending day as we sat in the railway carriage, and watched the wide spaces of the country, from station to station, go past our carriage window. It was a land of farms and farmers. The boundless fields were stocked with herds of sheep and cattle, the grain crops were running up into ear ; they would be level with the fences, when they yellowed for the harvest. But now, for long mile after mile, it was but an ocean of green, which in meadow and in cornfield was rippled into waves by the sweetest, purest breezes, which was bent over lovingly by the bluest heaven God has made. ' But in truth we saw all this go by somewhat indifferently ; we longed for but one sight—the end of our journey. Silently, for the most part, we sat together, our train clattering on, over bridge after bridge, up incline and down. There was less settlement now, and it was of a ruder, more primitive kind. There were ferny wastes, there were slovenly clearings, there was bush, bush, bush. Bush that had been growing for centuries, that sprang from the soil when first the rivers made these plains and scoured these gorges, but which, before another twenty years have run out may be gone like the vision of a dream. There were places where fire had passed through the forest, scorching and blackening and devouring acres upon acres. There were other places where great clearings had been hewn in it, where the tall trees stretched their long length on the hillsides where they had fallen, and lay bleaching white in sun and rain, like the bones of the dead on some great battlefield. There were rough built homes standing amongst the charred stumps, rough, hardy-looking women and children watching our train go by. But the people all seemed strong to labour, the soil was rich, the seasons kindly. ‘ It’s a grand country !’ said my next neighbour, and from his persistent use of that adjective, and the number of vibrations he contrived to give to the sound of the letter r, I thought I knew the name of his country. Soon he began to be confidential, to tell me why he ‘ came out,’ how many sons and daughters he had. and what they were doing. We were all getting confidential, we were peeling off our outer bark. Some of us were better without this ; some had better have kept it on. The sun was bowing to the west. Still the endless hills and breakneck gorges, dark as night in their great depths, still the same wealth of forest, still the rushing streams. Then after a long absence the sea ! the sea ! We were nearing the end. In the train they were talking of Salisbury and Chamberlain as familiarly as if London.not Wellington were the terminus of the line. They handled the Chinese question vigorously, they approved of disarmament, but would not care to be the first to try it, fhey would put off the evacuation of Egypt to the Greek kalends. The people of these islands are interested in the politics of every country but their own. One can hardly wonder that they don’t care much for those. Wellington ! The summer day had been a long one, but it had been dark for some time when we stepped out of the train.

‘We are well on the road now,’ said my aunt, as we took supper at the hotel. ‘ I suppose Hilda must have received your message. She will know we are coming, and with the money order telegram you sent her, she need be in no trouble about want of funds. In one way, poor girl, she is relieved already.’ ‘ I am afraid,’ I said, ‘ that this long journey will be too much for you.’ My aunt scoffed at the idea. ‘ You forget the distances I have done in my time. I am thinking a great deal about seeing Hilda again. Ah me ! I fear I’m a very wicked old woman.* • Why ?’ I said. ■ Because I cannot be sorry for her

father. He is dying miserably, and I find myself actually rejoicing that I am to have Hilda all to myself again. She will come back to me, and we shall never part again.’ ‘ You forget the existence of Mr Kupert Gladwin.’ ‘ Kupert Gladwin ! That namby pamby fellow I You quite irritate me with your allusions to the man. It’s absolute nonsense to talk about him.' ‘ You speak to me as if 1 were responsible for him,’ 1 replied—‘ as if I’d invented him.’ ’ 1 know all about him,’ said my aunt, ‘and that's what makes me so angry. A poor notion of Hilda you must have, to think she would engage herself to such a creature. He has money—oh, yes. he has money. Some people woidd think that was quite sufficient. But I don’t believe in the intelligence of a man with no back to his head and only about two inches of receding forehead.’ ‘Why, do you know him?’ ‘Certainly. He was often in Auck-

land. He used to dangle about a good deal before Hilda went away. You may be sure he got no encouragement from me.’ ‘He might have amiable qualities you didn’t perceive,’ said I. ‘I tell you, Cecil, the man is a simpleton. And he’s years older than Hilda—years!’ ‘Oh,’ said 1. ‘That is a pity.’ ‘lt isn't a pity at all. It doesn’t matter how ancient he is, for I'm convinced this report is a fable.’ ’My dear cousin,’ I said, ‘for you are my cousin after all. and only twenty years older than I am, though you pretend to be so aged—you are prejudiced against the man.' ’So are you. but you’re too hypocritical to own it,’ cried my relative, highly incensed because I had called her cousin, a title which for some unknown reason always marie her angry. ‘lt's perfectly absurd the way you talk of him. You must have him on the brain.’ I am afraid there was some truth in this. Mr Kupert Gladwin was like an

unquiet spirit that rose up every now and then to torment me. The grounds on which my aunt refused to beliete the report that concerned him were reasonable enough, and yet I couldn’t help thinking there might be something in it. Not indeed because the idea pleased me. It did not. It was ludicrous; but 1 was always seeing the man as my aunt had described him an individual who was unhappv enough to have no back to his head, ami whose forehead receded in a marked degree. And vears older than Hilda, years older! That slighting remark had found a target in another person besides Mr Gladwin. Our rest at Wellington was but short. We shipped for Lyttelton. Lauded there, again we tore away by tlie train. Through the long tunnel, through Christchurch, that Englishlooking city, with its peaceful river fringed by willows, its handsome buildings, and its cathedral spire. Out into the great plains, the laud made rich by wool and grain. Over long bridges, across full-fed rivers running in wide shingle beds, over land that is tilled like a garden, that is more productive than a goldfield. Again we were hurrying on without a pause for over two hundred miles. And ever on our left lay the sett, and ever on the right, beyond the plains, rose the mountains wrapped in their stainless snows. When the sun is on them, this dazzling purity stands before the high blue heaven like that great white throne which no mortal eye may look upon and live.

VVe had lost this prospect. We had lost it for two reasons—the misty rain and the night. For coming southward we had dashed into rain. It ushered us into Dunedin; it travelled with us when we left that city. Kain, rain, rain from a great, grey skv, where one spot of pale silvery light showed the lurking place of tile sun. It thickens, and even this is gone. It rains worse the nearere we come to the mountains. On the foot liils. and 011 the greater heights beyond, it is raining as it only can rain in an Alpine country, whose ice peaks are fanned by the warm, moist wind from the western ocean. We had left the train, and were journeying on by coach, through a country so worn and washed by the .streams descending from the 'skies, and plunging from the hills, that it seemed in some danger of being carried away bodily. The rivers roared through their channels in floods of turbid. ehoeolate-eoloured water. Landslips toppled down; bridges were swept away. Witli the snows melting or. the heights and the rain falling, falling as if it would never eease, the floods were out in all directions. The season was said to be the wettest that had been known for ten years. And this in a country whose skies weep copiously every season, and whose rivers, in proportion to the shortness of their course, carry more water to the sea than any others in the world. So far my aunt had borne the fatigues and discomforts of the journev very well. But now the constant travelling and the bad weather we had to encounter began to tell on her. She had scarcely been in her usual health when we left Auckland. We ha.l reached a small town, which but for the extraordinary state of the roads would have been within an easy distance of Strathalvon when she turned too ill to go any further. She had caught a severe cold, and seemed in danger of an attack of bronchitis. ’Ton must leave me here.’ she said, ’and push on by yourself. I can’t bear the thought of that poor child left alone in some miserable little place in this awful country. It is enough to unsettle her mind.' troubled as she is just now. You must go on by yourself. Cecil; I only hinder vou. Never mind me. I shall be able to follow in a <hiy or two.

I was eager enough to push on. We had heard something about Hilda and Dalzell which had increased our ur.xiety. Some people who were staving at the hotel in which we had put up in this town had talked freely before us about the handsome young actress and her father. It seemed that they were well known in this part of New Zealand. They bad stayed in Dunedin for some time. Neither of the two was plating in ant company Dalzell’s intemperance bail prevented him from getting employment. No nmlinger, except perhaps Mr Tomlins, would have anything to do with him, and Tomlins, whom lie had quarrelled with, was far away.

His <l<iug*htei* was too unhappy and dispirit rd to do justice to herself. Misfortune had broken her heart; it svvnird e\en to have robbed her of her talent. She had failed in her actini'; she had been obliged to cancel her engagements. Then Rupert Gladwin had appeared on the seem*. Having known her in Auckland, it was natural he should claim acquaintance with her when he met her again in Dunedin. Hur father’s habits shamed her so much that she felt herself excluded from society—compelled to avoid the notice of those who might have shown her kindness. Mr Gladwin was her only friend. Dalzell caught at him. as, according to the proverb, a drowning man catches at a straw.

Gladwin pressed them to visit him and his sister at their up-country station. Perhaps he guessed their necessities. or hoped that a banishment from town might help Dalzell back again to habits of sobriety. The same reason had induced Hilda to accept the invitation. It was said that her father had been trying to force her into a marriage with Gladwin as a last resort, now he had found that despite all her cleverness she was a failure on the stage. Gladwin, who appeared to be a feeble advocate of his own cause, was also supported by his sister. It was not known whether Hilda would yield to the pressure brought to bear upon her. But our fellow travellers, who discussed the affair so openly, inclined to the opinion that she would. Dalzell had not been able to get so far as the Gladwins’ place; but had fallen ill while stoping for the 1 night at the accommodation house in Strathalvon. At first the Glad wins had pressed that he should be removed to their house; but Hilda had resisted this perhaps , I thought, because she did not wish his real condition to be known. Dalzell still lingered on. Even now, in his conscious moments, he did not cease to urge his daughter to accept Gladwin. She would give way at last. ‘lt is shameful to hear hei talked ; bout like this,’ said iny aunt, with burning cheeks, and with tears in her eyes. ‘How can they have got to know such things, even supposing that they arc true?’

‘They seem to be acquainted with the Glad wins.’ I said. ‘And they have talked about it. A poor fellow like that couldn't keep his own counsel. His sister is no better. I never liked Rachael Gladwin. She has been trying to marry off her brother for ever so long, and you may have some idea how unprepossessing he is when I tell you that although he's worth three thousand a year no one wil have him as a gift.' With this depreciatory notice of the unfortunate Mr Gladwin still sounding in my ears I said good-bye to my aunt and travelled on to the next stage, li seemed as if this must be the last. 'The coach could go no fur--1 her.

The driver had brought his passengers to the one hotel of a village of some two dozen houses. It was a homely sort of inn, rough in its accommodation. but hearty in its hospitality. The landlord, short and stout and rubicund as the typical landlord of picture* and of story, treated all comers with the same jocular familiarity. When I sought his company with the intention of questioning him about the road I ought to take, he was arguing with a customer who had found fault with the cuisine of 1 he establishnirnt.

‘Well, we're not used to pin tieular people. Sind that's si fact.' he said. 'But I caii tell you what, we've had Lord Onslow here, and he made no complaint. If the aristocracy are satisfied with our tucker. I should think you might be.' Having crushed his opponent by this retort, the landlord turned to me with the air of si man who wsis ready for anything'. •I'hc driver tells me that the vouch can go no further,' I said. ‘ls there no way of getting- though to Strathsil"I’he driver says so? Did he tell von so himself?' ‘Yes. I have just been speaking with him.' ‘Then I reckon you'd better put your trust in him. and stay where you are. If he says you can’t go on. von may be bound you esiu’t. He's done some remarkable things in his time hsis Jim; but whim a bridge has been carried away he's not equal to

Hying over the gap, and all.' ‘ls there no other bridge?’ 1 said. 'Can’t we take another road?’

‘You may go up and you may go down,' ssiid the landlord, 'and you won't find si bridge standing. You won’t get round this river by taking a nice little stroll along it. You may take my word for it that this is a drowned country, and that the bridges have gone by the board in every stream you'll come to.’ ‘Look here,' 1 said. 'I must get to Strathalvon. I mean to get there. Can this river be forded? Can I swim a horse across?’ The landlord seemed to be awed by this proposition. ‘You don’t belong to these parts?’ he said slowly and deliberately. ‘You don’t know our rivers, Forded! Try it if you like; but let me have si good look at you first, so that 1 may know you at the inquest.’ ‘There'll be no inquest,' said his former opponent in a sepulchral voice. ‘He'd never turn up again.’ The landlord nodded an assent to this. ‘But.’ continued the former speaker, ‘if the gentleman must get through there is a way.’ ‘Now Bagley.’ said the landlord, warningly. ‘This country isn’t so thickly populated that you need be leading respectable people to throw their lives away.' ‘I say there is a way. A fellow esime over this morning by the bridge sit the wide part above the bend.’ ‘Why, that’s gone,’ said the landlord. No. It's near being gone, that’s all. The embankment’s broken down, all but si narrow pathway like. You couldn't drive over: but you might walk across or lead a horse. This fellow I'm telling you of rode across.’ ‘Well. I’ll not advise any such thing,’ said my host. ‘l'll try it,’ T said. ‘At any rate I’ll ride to the place and see if I can't get over.’ ‘lf it was safe in the morning it mayn't be safe now.' remarked the landlord. The bridge was fifteen miles up stream. The landlord let me have a horse, which he said was ‘game to the backbone.’ ‘Don’t drown him,’ he cried after me. ‘and don't drown yourself either. Good-bye. If you do get over, you know, you’ll have a pretty tough piece of road between you and Strathalvon.’ With these encouraging words he turned again to his companion and observed in what was intended to be an undertone: ‘I should say that there's somebody at Strathalvon.’

1 rode away through the sodden country. Fifteen miles along the river bank on a road that was fairly passable brought me to the bridge. The embankments on either side had crumbled nearly away. It was wonderful that any part of them still remained. But the river was of great width here, and the force of the current was moderated by being spread over a larger area. Still it boiled between the piers of the bridge, which rocked and trembled in an alarming manner: it washed almost over the narrow pathway on which my horse trod so nervously, turning his startled eyes from right to left. I had to encourage him a good deal to get him

Safely across, my spirits rose at the prospect of making a dash for Strathalvon. I knew very little about the road: but the landlord had given me some general directions, and had supplemented these by the information that my horse had been stabled at the place I sought, and that if I threw the reins on his neck and sat firm in the saddle I should be there in double quick time. This was more reassuring than most af the remarks with which my host had favoured me. The day was far gone, and much of the journey would have to be done in the dark. But the pace at which I was going, over roads that were indescribable, soon told me that I had a good horse under me. He rose to the occasion most gallantly. Whether it were the stable at Strathalvon or the unconquerable spirit of which the landlord had declared him to be possessed I know not; but certgin it is I hat I have never had a better mount than on that memorable night.

The rain had ceased even before sundown. The majesty of the whiterobed hills was before me once again. The peaks had flamed as with fire, had been dyed in purple, had faded to grey. Night had come down. With a change of wind there had been a fall

of temperature, and it was bitterly cold. It was a damp, penetrating cold which searched one through and through, and which seemed to be intensified by the constant sight and sound of either standing or running water.

The stars above shone brightly from a clear sky, and by starlight I kept on my way. I was not to go far without coming upon one of the countless streams by which the country was furrowed. I heard the roar of water long before I reached it. There was no passage here. But a man at a lonely house standing near the flooded river flats shouted to me that I could get across lower down, where the river forked and spread out over its immense shingle bed. I rode downwards, and allowed my horse to choose the crossing place, which he certainly knew much better than I. I felt him shiver under me in the cold water. But he went bravely in. However it was a good deal deeper than I had thought, and the current whirled its black waters across our path with a furious strength, which at the first onset had almost dragged us both, horse and man, helplessly down stream. I do not know' how we stemmed that force, strong and cruel as death, which thrust at us continually, which tried to suck the foundations from under us, to bore a passage for itself under my horse’s staggering feet. Very soon I was chilled through and through by the awful cold of that w’ater which had drained from mountain glaciers. We went on—on. But suddenly we went down —down into a place that seemed to have no bottom. My horse was off its legs, and was swimming for dear life. I had never swum a horse over a river before, and could sympathise with the sailor >'oy who complained of being sent up aloft for the first time on a dark and stormy' night. I would rather the attempt had been made under more favourable circumstances. However, the horse does nearly all the work. It is a gallant creature that pants and struggles under me. and strains for the other shore. ‘Oh.’ I vowed to him—and he heard my voice and strove the harder for it—‘if we get through, you shall be mine for life!'

I remembered that some of his kind have a perverse habit of turning on one side while swimming, which may' be pleasing to themselves, but is inconvenient to the rider. I hoped that he would not so demean himself. No. he swims upright. But he labours more and more heavily, gacpiiig and struggling. In these worst moments of all I wondered how long he would hold out, and whether there was any chance for me if he went down. Could I swim against this roaring flood? Then I found myself talking to him as I might have done to another man who was breasting the stream with me. Like two brothers, we fought together for our lives.

I suppose that the distance was short, but the time seemed hours long. \Ve were swept by the current a good way down stream, and the place we struggled out at was by no means opposite to that we had started from. After stumbling among boulders ami loose shingle for a time, there was another branch of the stream to cross, but this was shallow. We were over at last, and my horse scrambled up the bank, and shook himself as a dog might have done.

If the wind had been cold before, it was colder now. But the last obstacle had been passed; the road was clear to Strathalvon. My horse knew it. and stretched himself out in such a gallop as I bad rarely had before. How his loosened shoes clank on the road! How the dimly-seen objects by' the way rush past in long streaks and blurs! And how a light before us grows nearer and larger. A tired horse and a tired man make their entry into Strathalvon at something before midnight. There is no need to ask the way to the only house of entertainment. It would be difficult to find anyone out of bed to ask it of. But in the long, low building midway down the street the people arc up and lights are burning. ‘Well, you've taken it out of him.’ said the man who received my horse from me. ‘Bidden his shoes off. Oh. yes: he belongs here. But we didn’t expect to see him back to-night.’ I hurried inside, ami while I questioned the landlady, peeled off my damp overcoat, which had dried some-

what in the wind I had hurried through. Miss Dalzell was still there. She was well—yes, poor young lady, as well as could be expected. Mr Dalzell? Oh—dropping her voice to a lower tone—it was all over. A merciful relief, too, for all concerned. ‘How did he die?’ I asked in a voice as low as her own.

‘Oh, very peaceably, sir. I was afraid, for her sake, that it mightn't be so. But, thank God! he made a very quiet ending. The funeral was to-day. It was well his daughter had some friends near her. Mr Gladwin and his sister have ridden down nearly every day—all through the bad weather even. They were anxious for Miss Dalzell to go home with them this afternoon; but she wouldn’t. However. they’re coming to-morrow again to try to get her away.’ The temperature had fallen to zero. The wind outside cold! It was nothing to this. ‘Miss Dalzell is sitting up, sir,’ said the landlady. ‘I will tell her that you have come.’

1 gave her a message for Hilda. She returned with an answer almost immediately. ‘Miss Dalzell would like to see you at once. Please come this way.’ I followed her along the dingy passage to the open doorway of a small room. She left me there. The lady, who was sitting near the table on which the lamp was placed, rose as I entered. It was Hilda —Hilda once more.

The deep black she wore made her pale face look paler still, her figure thinner. Her face seemed older for the last year and a-half—altered even as I had never thought to see it, though I knew how roughly life had used her these last few months. Yet, strangely enough, it reminded me of her as a child. It had the same expression—the wistful, anxious look it had worn in the day’s when our acquaintance began. It was the child’s expression on a woman’s face. But why had it come back again?

I can see her now as she came to meet me. She smiled: but the tears were shining in her eyes. ‘You—you! Oh. 1 knew you would come!’ With that hand tight locked in my clasp, with the lovely passionate face looking into mine. I did not care the toss of a penny for Rupert Gladwin. (To be continued.)