The Stourbridge Observer, Cradley Heath, Halesowen & District Chronicle.
Stourbridge, West Midlands, England, 1886-01-30 00:00:00

OR,
i SECRET FOR YEARS.

CHAPTER LW.
IN SEARCH OF THE LOST ONE.

A DARE December night, the rain beating against the
'casements, the wind howling fearfully among the
great trees surrounding the house.
Ingestre is alone, pacing his library up and down;
George Ross no longer--master of Redfern no
- more. . _

He listened to the wailing of the wind, and the loud
splash of the rain upon the stone terrace; he listened,
with but one thought in his mind.
"She is abroad—braving this 1"
And then he ground his teeth, and beat his great
hollow chest.
The loss of name and wealth that day was no
loss to him compared with the loss of her. She
Was gone, had left him, and he dared not even seek
her. In her eyes he was a swindler, an impostor—
she loved him no more. The tears fell down his
burning cheeks—streamed from his aching eyes, and
he wept like a woman.
The being he most loved in the world was the one
most injured by the great lie of his life. Fame, child,
and fortune had been lost to her through his wrong
doing. Seventeen long weary years of her youth
had been passed as a wanderer, and little better than
an outcast on the face of the earth. And now the
time had come that, through him and his second lie,
she had gone forth once more, a blighted and hope-
less creature.
The last look at her face told him her mind was
on the verge of departing; that wherever she went
there was little reason to guide her steps. And he
thought, with horror too deep for words, of the dark
night, the wild, pathless park, and the dark river;
for the lake was a flowing river now, and the bridge
from the village was scarcely fordable.
And then that horror beset him, and became the
prevailing idea of his mind—the river, the island, and
something floating among the long reeds and tangled
lily stems close by it. He could not sit nor stand,
nor even stride the narrow room—the horror was so
strong upon him.
He rushed to the window and threw it wide open,
and leaned out, only to gasp for breath, and stare into
the dark night. The rain dashed on his face, and the
wind lifted his hair; but the storm and the utter
darkness brought no consolation with it. It only
seemed as if the night was ready to engulf any for-
lorn waif within the compass of its gloom, and the
cruel, wailing, drifting wind howling in triumph over
some treacherous act it had just been guilty of,
Then while he stood there, all but paralysed with
the horror of his thoughts, a cry, a screech rather,
came drifting to his ears on a gust of wind. Another
and another followed, more dismal than the last, and
then the blast of wind was gone, careering far over
the moors, leaving everything else still.
A strange calmness fell upon him. He closed the
Window, and came back into the centre of the room.
His face was deathly pale, and his eyes had a wild,
startled expression; still that expression was not
utterly senseless. He sat down for a moment leaning
his forehead in his hands, seeming, as it were, to
collect and adjust his thoughts. Then he arose, and
walked with a firm step out of the room.
Everything was quiet outside, and he went on into
the hall, where he took down his cloak and hat, and
put them on. Then he rang the servants' bell, and
Domingo appeared in a moment; for, to tell the truth,
the black had been lying in the shadow of a bronze at
the further end of the hall, watching the door of the
room which contained his master.
"Domingo, I want a lantern."
And he stood there patiently, staring at vacancy,
until the black returned with the lighted lantern.
Domingo looked piteously at the strangely cold, im-
passive face of his master.
"Sare, may I come too?" his livid, trembling lips
Whispered.
"No, remain here; I don't want you," and Ingestre
started off.
Domingo stood at the door, and watched him turn
into a footpath aeross the park—watched him until
the glimmering light was eclipsed by the intense dark-
ness; and then, gently closing the door behind him,
the faithful creature, bareheaded, went out into the
stormy night, too, and followed him closely.
Ingestre went on and on, through mud, and marsh,
and mire. He went beneath those huge old chestnut-
trees Catherine spoke of long ago, then stood upon the
,edge of the lake, and near to the boat-house before-
mentioned. He turned his light upon the water, and
it gleamed in, a tiny ray upon its broad surface,
broken into miniature billows by the wind and rain.
It was only for a moment he remained thus; he
unlocked the door of the house, and entering its dark,
'Slimy interior, proceeded to fasten his light in the
Prow of the boat. That was soon done, and then,
with a powerful stroke of the oar, he shot her out
into deep water.
He pulled with long, sweeping strokes, with all the
strength of his strong arms, through the dark, dan-
gerous water, in the direction of the island. It was a
difficult task, for it was a night of intense darkness,
and he had no solitary point by which to steer his
course. But, at last, the boat grounded, the oar
struck, and he lifted the lantern, and saw the great
willows in a dark mass above him.

CHAPTER LV.
MAXALL'S DOOM.
'GEORGE INGESTRE fastened the boat, as well as he was

able, to one of the swaying boughs of the willows,
and then, taking the light in his hand, he proceeded
to walk round the island. Once he stood still, and
Shouted, with a force that carried- his cry far above
the wild beating of the wind—
"Catherine, Catherine!"
There was no rely. He strained to catch some
faint echo to his call, but none came; and he went
on, madly plunging through bush and bramble, mud
an water, ever crying—
"Oh, Catherine, Catherine !--fost--dead! "
The light he held shed a faint and flickering glim-
mer on the shrubs and leafless trees about him, but it
as useless to aid him so far as careful search was
required. Yet, feeble as it was, it served to show
something,b he had scarcely come there to find.
It has been before said that the water of the lake
had risen high above its usual level, and partially
submerged a portion of the island. Here the long
reeds and tall rushes were matted thickly together
under the water, and formed of themselves another
island, divided from the parent one by a flowing
stream.
Among these reeds and grass, turned upwards to
the sky, was a human face. Its deadly whiteness
Shone out most horribly, amid the dark mass of
tangled stems and roots in which it lay.
Ingestre saw the awful sight, and, with a dismal
Yell, leaped the gulf dividing him from it, and
alighted knee-deep in water and mud, close to the
Spot near which it reposed, calmly staring at the dark
81,Y ; for the eyes were wide open, and the mouth
tilled with slime and water. And there he stood,
O, rather waded, with his lantern turned full on
that face.
"This is a relief," he sighed, and looked again at
the body at his feet, only partially out of the reach of
the strong current.
The face was not Catherine's, but it was one he
oew as well. It was that of the boy whom he
'lad always supposed to be his brother's son, and the
rightful heir of the property he held. It was the face
of Maxall that now lay among the rushes and lily-
stems, staring up at the dark, starless sky. The face
of a murderer, whom God's punishment had over-
taken at last.
Ingest re turned away, and left the body there. It
.was a corpse; what avail could anything living be to
It now? So he argued, to appease the upbraiding cry
of his heart at the inhumanity of the action. But, in
fact, Ins dread of that loathsome face, that awful
Sight, drove him irresistibly away from it.
To see the water dabbling with the hair—splashing
over the white face—lifting the small body with
heavy thuds. No! Alone with such a sight, in that
wild spot, on that wild night, was more than he could
endure and retain his senses.
Re plunged back through the sedgy gulf, and
rushed across the island to re-enter the boat. It was
Fon, ! The rope, decayed with weather, had snapped
in two, and the boat had drifted or been blown far
oUt of reach.
Re did not hesitate an instant; but, flinging the
lantern away, his hat as well, plunged headlong into
the lake, and swam for his life. For hia life? Yes,
he had not a thought of resigning it. He had not a
single idea of giving that guilty life up, stained, as it
"was, to its Maker.
In all the horror of that day's exposures— in all its
overwhelming shame, the man's better nature was
true to itself, and the cry of his half-broken heart,
hia sorely bruised spirit was, " I will live to atone!
Grant me life to repeat! And, therefore, he struggled
manfully with the dangerous tide, and swam as men
do for their lives.
He was preserved. He felt his feet touch the stony
bo:ttAem, and then a fearful gust of wind drove him,
and a mountain of water, safely on to the bank, where
ihe clutched at the wet masses of grass and fern-stems
he knew grew all along it.
He stood upright at last, safely landed on the
greensward of the park, and he hastened on to the
house, the memory of what he had left behind
causing his steps almost to fly. He entered by the
front door, for Cleland was standing there, with it
Wide open, and the rain beating down en her unpro-
tected face.
She uttered an exclamation of joy at the sight of
her father.
"At last! Oh, papa! I could not believe I should
ever see you again. Parkins told me you had gone
"t• How wet! and no bat! Papa?"
She looked eagerly up into his face. It was calm
enough—nothing there to terrify her; and he smiled
and kissed her as he said—
" The wind took my hat in crossing the park; we
,shall find it to-morrow. How is Lina ?"
I.r She is asleep. We have seen nothing of Ingram
4-ngestre, but a man left a note ten minutes ago for
Y. 211 ; he came from Lowmoor, and said it was most
u
I_,LurePossrtant. See, papa, I put it in the bosom of my
--here it is, but first you' eatig-ahartge your wet
clothes."
He snatched it from her, tore it open, and read

•
"r.

"Mr. Ingestre's presence is required at the Mill
Rouse Lowmoor. A. lady, seriously ill, is anxious to
see him."

This, then, was. the end of it all; Catherine was
ill—dying. He had killed her; and now there was
nothing to be done but ride those six miles with the
best speed he could, and hear the last words she
should utter.

The man of -ungovernable passions was calm and
collected now the worst of all had come upon him,
and the leaden despair at his heart brought him at
least quiet. He gave orders for his fastest horse to
be saddled, and then sought out the baroness to ask
her protection for his only possession, Cleland, in his
absence.

"You are a good-helrted woman, baroness. You
loved George well, I know, and will be kind to poor
Cle for his sake, if not for mine. If Ido not return,
make no inquiries after me, but take the best means
to prove Ingram's rights, and Lina's, too. But, oh!
look after Cle ! love and be kind to her, and never
let her suffer for my sins."
In all the wind and rain the poor girl stood holding
the horse at the foot of the wide stone steps, and
looking fearfully into the darkness through which
her father was to pass. He tried to escape parting
with the only creature whose love he could call his
own. But it was not to be. She put her arms round
him, and he looked tenderly down upon her pale,
thin face.

"My darling! I have not been a good parent to
thee."
"Papa, you have loved me. What more could I
want?"

"Not been a good father to thee, my child—
wronged thee frightfully. But, oh! I meant not to
do it! What fortune wilt thou have now, Cle, when
lam gone? None. Thank Heaven, my boy is dead!
spared this! Forgive me, child! forgive me before
I go ! "
"Go ! go where?" she cried. "Father, go where?'
She clung to him, and would not let him mount. "Go
where?" she screamed, for the high wind almost
drowned the voices.

He tore her hands from the reins, kissed her pas-
sionately, then mounted and dashed away. •
Above the wind he heard that shrill scream
repeated, " Father ! go where ?" and, as he rode,
every gust seemed to bring the echo to his ear,
" Where?"

(10 6e continued.)